Building anew
by LunaStorm
Summary: In resp. to a challenge about a MULTICROSSOVER HP,Naruto&FFVIII: They had come to this driven by despair, by hope. They had left their past, their world, what they had believed in and fought for. Now they faced new and unexpected challenges together...
1. Rebirthed

_Building anew_

* * *

_A/N: __On one of our movie nights a couple friends and I somehow found ourselves discussing fan fiction, and one of them came up with a dare that ran more or less like this: "Try and write a story with the Harry Potter gang, the Naruto gang AND the Final Fantasy VIII gang all together and make it believable!". Well, I'm rising to the challenge. It will be slow going, I think, but I'm confident I'll get them all… You'll be the judges of whether the story makes sense as well… _

_Disclaimer: __Anything you recognize – especially the characters – belong to J. her various publishers and Time Warner, I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

_Warnings: I think I'll go with chapter-by-chapter warnings, as I've got the general outline of the story but am still unsure on most details. The only general warning valid overall is: this is a multi-crossover. So… for Chapter One: sadness and a bit of angst but that's it._

* * *

One. Like Phoenixes on Burning Day

_Chateau de Malfoi, somewhere in France. Beginning of May 1999_

Harry felt the last of the wards snap in place, sealing him and his closest friends off from the rest of the world, keeping them safe at last, and let himself collapse on the elegant sofa in the middle of the beautiful and yet cold – so cold – sitting room.

Eyes closed, he could feel the others around him, scattered on armchairs or the other sofa or the rug, each as weary, as sad, as lost as he himself felt.

Ron. Dejected and bitter and furious, his first and best friend, betrayed by those he loved the most, the family that used to be his world.

Hermione. Scared and lost and miserable, his beloved sister, trapped in loneliness even here, with them.

Neville. Strong still, yet disheartened, dispirited, the friend he should never have underestimated, who hadn't spoken a word in over six months and really, Harry couldn't blame him.

Luna. As lovely and absent-minded as ever, but there was a clenched quality to her expression these days, belying her apparent act, sadness and resignation and loss in her dreamy eyes.

Draco. Him, Harry still wasn't sure how he had ended up with them, and yet he was one of them now, his dimmed eyes and resigned frown too similar to any of theirs to deny how alike they all were now.

And Ginny… beautiful, tough little Ginny, refusing to admit the pain her eyes told of, so close and yet so distant from him, from any of them…

They were all tired, they were all burdened and sad and weary, and he was the most drained of them all.

They had nothing left… except perhaps each other...

A small pop alerted them of Kreacher's arrival and Harry opened his eyes wearily in time to see his elf distributing mugs of hot tea and disappearing without a word. Like they all had, Kreacher had changed a great deal since the Final Battle. Unlike them, he had changed for the better, and now stood proud in a sort-of-uniform made of expensive white tablecloth, kept pristine at all times, Regulus' locket shiny and smugly displayed on his chest. His manners had changed too, nowadays he was as proper and well-mannered as a butler of the Victorian age.

None of them made a sound as they cradled their mugs, their eyes unfocused. In a way, they were saying good-bye to their past, to their world, to what they had believed in and fought for. They had come to this safe place with hope, but it was despair that had driven them.

Like Phoenixes on a burning day, they were losing everything and themselves.

Then, they would try and start anew, reborn from the ashes of what had possibly been the worst year of their life. And how horrible was it, that it had happened _after_ the war was over?

When they should have been safe…

when they should have been happy…

Harry scrunched his eyes tightly shut, his breathing ragged as he struggled not to cry, not to give in to the recent memories.

But they came nonetheless…

* * *

_A/N__ 2: This story will be very slow-going. Please do not expect frequent updates, I cannot guarantee them, and please do not expect a lot of action or the story to move along quickly when the updates do come. I hope you can come to like it anyway._

_Luna_

_P.S. The title is pending, it's there mainly because FF requires it, but I'm not satisfied by it. If you can come up with something better let me know, I'll be glad to change it!_


	2. Memories

_Disclaimer: __Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others, I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

_Warnings for Chapter Two: Depressive things ahead. Ye have been warned._

* * *

Two. Like tears in the rain

**Luna**_**…**_

It had been a few days after the funerals had ended that Harry had realized something was wrong with his pale-haired friend.

They had taken to coming and going from Hogwarts at odd intervals, all of them who had fought to defend it – the DA, the Order, the students and parents and Hogsmeade villagers – to help out in fixing it, cleaning the rubbles and the like. It felt right, to be there, to contribute in some small ways, it felt like an act of love. For the school, for the future. For Magic itself, maybe. Yet no-one stayed at Hogwarts overnight; even Hagrid was temporarily accommodated at the Hogshead.

No-one but Luna.

He hadn't been sure, at first, but he had thought it a rather weird coincidence that every time he dropped by, even for just a half hour during those hectic days full of trials and explanations and difficulties, she was there. Every single time.

Then he had heard others remark upon it, Padma and Dennis and Ron and a few others as well. She was always there.

He didn't know exactly why it had disturbed him, but he was used to trust his instincts and they were telling him something was wrong; so he drew her aside one morning and confronted her.

He had felt his heart clench painfully when she had lightly admitted that she was staying there to avoid her father. Worse still had been the answer to his stammered question of "W-why?"

"Oh, Harry, darling, did you think I would go back to someone who has betrayed my friends?"

It had felt like a blow in his guts.

She had used such a mild tone, carefree almost, but her eyes… her eyes told a different story, her eyes showed her pain and grief.

Harry had felt devastated.

He never wanted – he never even thought that someone would give up their family… that Luna would lose her father – she had no-one else… and it was his fault! His fault! He had fought so that no more families would be torn apart and here he was destroying yet another one!

He had begged her to reconsider. To go back. He had assured her over and over that he had forgiven Xenophilius, that all was forgotten, that nothing serious had happened anyway, they hadn't been captured or hurt or anything after all, he was her father, she shouldn't… she should go back, make peace with him, forgive him…

"He was just trying to protect you, Luna, he loves you…"

"I know, Harry, and I love Daddy of course, and I would go back, if he could understand why I can't forgive him."

"But Luna…"

"Harry, darling, it is my decision."

He hadn't given up on convincing her. He couldn't. Family had always been too important to him, something to be revered and respected, even if he wasn't sure he truly understood its meaning. He couldn't let Luna lose that, especially not for him!

But then Neville had taken him out for a butterbeer, and showed him the latest Quibbler.

Articles about _Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Killed-Our-Children_, blaming him for bringing the war to Hogwarts – _**as if there weren't Death Eaters torturing the students already there**_ – blaming him for forcing – _**forcing!**_ – children to fight. Articles blaming him for not ending the war sooner – _**of all things**_ – the testimony of a witch that claimed to have seen him camping at the seaside '_while everybody else was fighting, peaceful as can be, just having fun on the sand'_ – _**I wasn't on holiday, you stupid hag, it was anything *but* fun, and we never even saw the seaside anyway! What the hell!**_ – a claim of him being '_a dangerous destroyer', _complete with a picture of Luna's house after the Erumpent horn had exploded – _**that was Death Eaters, man, and Hermione **__*****__**did* warn you!**_– and in the editorial, Xeno Lovegood himself casting aspersion on his character, accusing him of '_keeping my 16-year-old daughter, Luna, prisoner in Hogwarts' _– _**WHAT?**_– '_My sweet Luna would never consort with the likes of him if not forced…', '…is proving himself no better that the Death Eaters who captured her before…', '…no one is safe…'_

Harry had thrown the magazine aside, disgusted, and met the sad understanding in Neville's eyes.

It wasn't even that the accusations surprised him. Between the Ministry and the press, they were steadily spreading that kind of lies. Apparently, it was better that his image be completely shattered, lest he decided to use his clout against them.

Perfectly logical, considering that most of the 'New and Reformed Ministry' was made up of… those who made up the 'Old and Not-Reformed' one. Dolores Umbridge was still in charge of a Department, for Merlin's sake!

No, Harry had no illusions anymore, even Kingsley Shaklebolt had turned out to be a politician first, and a (possibly) friend a distant second. Harry was expecting to be declared the next Dark Lord any day now.

But it hurt to see it from the pages of the only publication that had, at one time, supported him.

Luna had just smiled at him sadly: "It's ok, Harry. I… I have tried to tell him the truth, you know, but he refuses to listen. It's as if anything I say passes him by completely. He won't see reason. And I won't go back to… _that_. I won't."

There was nothing he could say to that. He could just hug Luna, grateful that she was willing to stand by him even if it cost her so much, and feeling sad and guilty for it, despite her reassurances that it was none of his fault.

After that, they had ignored the issue, concentrating on the unending series of crisis they had to face. Luna had gone on as if nothing was wrong, but didn't read the Quibbler anymore and never mentioned her father or her home, and she didn't talk about weird creatures anymore.

A few months later he had realized just how alone Luna had been left.

They had all gone out, to a Muggle restaurant so as to avoid the press and the angry mobs both, to cheer up and support Hermione, who had finally decided to go back to her parents after months apart, and was steeling her resolve.

The conversation had fallen on their former classmates – Neville had been telling them about the Patil twins, apparently Padma had accepted an arranged marriage and moved to India and an indignant Parvati had run after her, determined to smack some sense into her sister and bring her back.

Ginny had then asked about Dean Thomas' whereabouts, an innocent enough question, but he hadn't taken too well to it.

Things weren't good between Ginny and him and her inquiring about her ex – _**his rival**_, supplied his chest-monster helpfully – forced him to focus on Luna in order to quench the sudden jealousy arising in his chest. Because of this he noticed how his blond-haired friend's eyes had narrowed angrily even as she answered in as dreamy a tone as usual that she didn't know. She was upset; odd.

Ron, who blessed his soul had managed to never learn when to keep his mouth shut, had blurted out: "But aren't you two together? I mean, I saw you guys holding hands at the Battle so you're together, right? So, shouldn't you know where your boyfriend is or…" He had trailed off when he had caught Luna's unexpectedly unhappy gaze.

There had been a silence, stretched long enough for all of them to realize something was very wrong, then Luna had clenched her hands on the smooth table and told them in clipped tones: "Apparently, it was alright to 'comfort' each other during the war, but now that everything's over, he doesn't want a 'weirdo' around."

Neville had accidentally exploded all of the glasses on the table, drowning out Hermione's outraged yell; Ron had gaped at her while Ginny had exclaimed, horrified.

As for Harry, he had felt a surge of vicious protectiveness for Luna mix with his already present jealousy and the result had been a detailed and… colourful… depiction of Dean Thomas' dubious parentage, brain function (or rather lack thereof) and questionable personal hygiene.

His friends had stared at him for a moment, before bursting into laughter, while Luna had jumped up and effectively silenced him by way of kissing him on the cheek.

"Harry, darling, you're such a good friend. If I had thought we could work, you and I, I would have certainly fallen deeply in love with you", she had declared matter-of-factly, ignoring both his bewildered expression and the others' fresh bout of laughing.

Harry had caught a scowl on Ginny's face though, that had rather brightened his mood.

The evening had ended lightly and once out of the restaurant, Harry had told Luna: "Come home with me, Sis. There's more than enough place…"

Luna had looked shocked for a moment, and Harry was already about to apologize, worried that he had been too forward, that he was demanding more than he had a right to ask, but then Luna had smiled – her first true smile in ages.

"Of course, big brother!"

It was the first smile in ages for Harry, too.

* * *

**Hermione**…

Harry had been expecting the owl telling him she was back from Australia, where she had gone as soon as the funerals were over, to look for her parents.

He had _not_ expected the letter to say she was at the Leaky Cauldron, nor to find her in tears in one of the rooms there. Ron was as baffled as him. It should have been a simple trip, just a matter of finding her parents, restoring their memories and coming back home. What had gone wrong?

Hermione was sobbing and only a few broken sentences were understandable. "I didn't mean… It was the only way… what was I to do?... they don't understand… it was- it was the only way! I only wanted to protect them!"

"Hermione?", he had asked gently, slow understanding of the problem dawning on him. "What happened? You found your parents, didn't you? They're alright?"

"Oh, I found them alright!" she had cried shrilly, "Found them, and undid the memory spell, and then everything went wrong!". She was hysterical by then, and Ron had put his arms around her, patting her shoulder helplessly, while Harry sat on her other side.

They had let her cry, and then they had listened to her story, their faces grim with sorrow.

She had been so excited to go find them. Harry remembered her talking lively about their reunion, imagining tears and hugs and the three of them celebrating together. It had been the reason why she wanted to go alone, it was her family after all.

She had never imagined – and neither had they – that her parents would have been angry. Scratch that, they had been utterly furious!

They had accused Hermione of brainwashing them – _**brainwashing**__! _– and yelled at her that it was appalling behaviour. Her father had said that _'the daughter he had raised would never have done something like this!'_

Even just retelling her friends hurt, Harry could tell. Hermione's breath was ragged.

She had tried to explain. She had told of the war, described the situation, explained her reasoning. They were Muggles, they couldn't defend themselves, not from wizards – '_what do you think, that we're worthless, young lady?' _– they didn't even fully realize the danger, she had never truly told them about her adventures – '_oh, so you've been lying to us for years, have you?'_.

And they were targets. She would have been in danger simply by being Harry Potter's best friend – and this had prompted another round of yelling, '_what were you thinking, associating with a boy involved in a war! You should have stayed out of it!'_.

She had tried to tell them how important Harry was to her – her best friend, practically her brother; she had tried to explain that she would have been in danger despite him anyway: she, the brightest witch of a generation and a Muggleborn of all things, the very living proof that Blood Purity was nonsense.

They hadn't listened.

From their point of view, she had abused her powers in order to brainwash them into doing something they didn't want to do, lost them their job and their lives, spent a lot of money without permission and run off with two boys, living with them even before being of age.

They weren't pleased.

That she had been in a war as well, and risked death and worse, didn't help matters any.

They had come back to England, to "try and pick up the pieces of our lives", as her father had put it.

He was still yelling at her at random intervals, whenever a thought set him off. He told her he was furious, and ranted about all the appalling choices she had made.

Her mother was worse. She kept obstinately silent, scowling at her or ignoring her outright, then crying on her father's shoulder when Hermione wasn't in the room. Hermione could still hear her though, sobbing that she must have been a failure as a mother if her own child didn't care for her and treated her with such disrespect; that she didn't think she deserved to be lied to...

Hermione felt like screaming.

They were wrong, they were so wrong! She loved them! More than anything! She had tried to protect them, and she had done her best! Her very best!

The worst thing was that they blamed magic. And demanded she give it up.

She had nearly stopped breathing when they told her. Their faces were grave and set and they spoke of how "this magical world has stolen your life, Hermione" – '_**Magic IS my life!**__' _– "how much time have you spent with us these last years? Christmas at that school, summer with those Weasleys…", they hadn't seen much of her and "clearly, that was a mistake. The kind of people you've been associating with…" – '_**There's nothing wrong with my friends!**__' _– "…they've dragged you into all sorts of inexcusable things! They're clearly the wrong sort – bad influence on you…" – _'__**how can you say that! There was a *war* going on, what part of this can't you understand…**__' _– "… borderline criminal, the lot of them…" – _**WHAT?**_

Hermione felt lost. Her parents weren't listening to a word she said – they weren't interested. Their entire speech boiled down to: "This has to change."

Their ultimatum was clear: Hermione was to abandon the magical world altogether, make up for the loss of her education and go to a University. Stay away from everything that had turned her "into a girl I am ashamed to know, that would brainwash her own parents!". And never see any of her "so-called friends again".

That had been the last straw and Hermione had exploded. She had started shouting just as loud as her parents, willing them to listen, _forcing _them to listen, but far too angry now to care if they understood or not.

She had watched them grow silent, their face grow stony.

Things had been said, threats had been made. Something had been broken between them.

She had moved to the Leaky Cauldron that night and called Harry and Ron: they had arrived just as the anger was subsiding and leaving place for sorrow.

That had been about a month after the Final Battle.

They had had too many other problems to face in the following weeks to think much of Hermione's family situation.

She had moments of depression, and they were there for her – Harry and Ron especially, but the others too. Even Draco, when he ended up in Harry's home, had tried to be of help, although his opinion of Muggles hadn't changed from the war and he all but told Hermione she was better off without them; she had hexed him rather badly, right after telling him she appreciated the effort he was making.

They hadn't really done anything, though, mainly because they hadn't had the time and because Hermione couldn't find a solution. Her parents, she knew, wouldn't budge, but she felt like hyperventilating at the mere thought of never using magic again. It was part of her, as necessary as air. She wouldn't give it up.

So it had been over six months before she gathered up both time and courage to face them again; she missed them, and despite not having much hope of success, she wanted to try again and make them understand her point of view, accept her choices.

It had been too late.

She had only found two tombs in the local graveyard – there since the car crash that had claimed their lives three weeks before.

Three weeks.

She was late by three weeks, and now she would never see them again, she would never make her peace with them.

Then the newspaper articles she had feverishly researched had delivered the final blow, crushing her: '_…loss of their only child, Hermione Granger (18), who died of cancer just a few months ago…' _

Their only child, who died. They had thought her _dead_. They had told everyone… they had considered her _dead_! They weren't expecting her to come back – ever! They _didn't want her to come back! _Even if they hadn't died, _she_ was dead to them, their ultimatum had taken place and they had thrown her out of their lives.

She had been dead to them!

While she missed them, while she tortured herself searching a solution, wanting desperately her family back… she hadn't had a family at all, because _to them, she had been dead_.

And dead she felt, too.

Harry had brought her home – to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, where he had taken up residence – and settled her in a room, but she hadn't come out of her shock. She wouldn't do anything, not even eat, unless he or Luna insisted. And even then, it looked like she only humoured them so that they would leave her alone.

Harry could only hope that something would light a spark of life in his sister again, before they lost her forever.

* * *

**Neville**…

Neville had had it easier than the rest of them, at least in the beginning.

First of all, he was a hero – a true, honest-to-god Knight In Shining Armour.

Well, maybe not the armour, but he had a Shining Sword, which just so happened to be an Artefact of the Founders – and the wizarding world was a sucker for the Four Founders' legacy, anytime and in any form.

Plus, everybody had seen him _wield_ that sword, or heard the story from someone who had seen him: the tale of his defying Voldemort and killing his snake familiar, and leading Hogwarts' Army to victory, was quickly shaping into the stuff of legend. Same for the stories of his leading the Rebellion, as the students who had hidden themselves in the Room of Requirement had started to call themselves.

Add to that the tall, muscular build he had grown into and his handsome face, framed by shoulder-length hair and marked by the scars that proved his having bravely fought...

It didn't surprise Harry that his friend now had a queue of squealing and giggling fan-girls of his own. A few had even tried to ask him out, to his great embarrassment.

He told Harry that the gushing mothers who wanted to thank him for protecting their children were worse, though, "especially if they have daughters, 'cos then they usually end up talking about betrothals and I never know what to do!"

Ron laughed himself silly every time, while Harry, who right after the Battle had his share of both squealing fan-girls and ambitious mothers, was more sympathetic.

Harry's fans decreased in number quite soon, however, what with the Ministry out to portray him as an unbalanced murderer – again.

Neville, instead, had his heroic status increased by very good press.

He'd also managed to get his Herbology N.E.W.T. at the Ministry, without having to repeat the seventh year, and while his Gran was a bit disappointed that he didn't want to go into law enforcement, Neville was elated at having won a place at the Bastyr Institute of Herbology and daydreamed of growing rare plants for the rest of his life.

For a while it seemed like everything would go perfectly for him, and his friends found a measure of comfort and even hope in his evident happiness.

All that had changed with the Resource Saving Act the Ministry passed six months after the Battle of Hogwarts.

The propaganda had it presented as '_an audacious and far-sighted strategy to lead the wizarding world into a future of better management, through the intention to assemble and concentrate a critical __mass__ of financial and human resources in the needier areas and ventures, limiting dispersion as far as possible by choosing with inspiring daring to dramatically cut the costs of unfruitful venues'_.

What it boiled down to, was the redirection of resources – financial but not only – to the departments and projects the Ministry deemed worthy (for reasons that ranged from a genuine desire to see the Auror Corps raise in number to the convenience of a bribe from the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee).

Where the resources were redirected _from_, though? Why, obviously from 'unfruitful venues' such as… among others… the long-term care ward of St. Mungo's, and its patients.

The campaign to stop the Resource Saving Act had been short, brutal, and ineffective.

None of the other 'relatives of the unfortunate lost ones' were people of influence in any way. Their pleas weren't taken into consideration, weren't even mentioned in passing by the press.

As for Neville, a hero he might be, but like Harry before him, he had discovered that the Ministry could quite easily sway everybody's view with reiterated lies, and did so on a regular basis without hesitation or concern.

He had talked, rallied, spoken out, held discussions and meetings, attempted to raise funds, negotiated. To no avail.

The worst thing was that not only was the long-term care ward closed, but the relatives of the patients had been denied the right to even take them home.

Oh, not overtly of course, that would have probably gotten an outraged reaction out of the public. Probably. But in any case, it had been done very shrewdly, by way of placing outrageously high taxes on the right of keeping one's own ill relatives at home – and higher still on getting them admitted to a muggle hospital. Taxes very clearly meant to be impossible to pay for long.

And those who couldn't afford the taxes… were 'dealt with'.

Discreetly. Circumspectly. With proper sombre words and grave expression. And with full backing from the bunch of sheep often known as wizarding world…

They had all been there with Neville as his parents were lowered in their graves – Harry, Luna, Ginny, Ron and Hermione. No one else was present.

Not even Augusta Longbottom, who'd moved in with her brother Algernon when they'd been forced to sell the Manor in a last attempt to save her son and daughter-in-law and refused to go out in public anymore.

Neville hadn't said a word as the earth steadily fell on his dead parents.

He hadn't said a word as one by one, his friends had hugged him tightly, sadly.

He hadn't said a word as ever so slowly twilight invaded the graveyard, bit by bit concealing the landscape.

He hadn't said a word when Luna had found the courage to gently lead him away, or when Harry had silently placed a bowl of broth in front of him, in the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

He hadn't said a word, about anything, to anyone, ever since.

And none of them blamed him because, after all, what had words been good for?

* * *

**Ron**…

Ron had started off Life After the War (he was the one who insisted it deserved the capital letters) full of vigorous enthusiasm.

He wasn't _happy_, of course, but he was full of hope and energy and plans for the future.

He had been sympathetic with George, who had shut down completely after his twin's death, but had loudly proclaimed that Fred would have wanted them to go on living and laughing and joking.

He'd roped Harry and Seamus in pulling a few rather spectacular pranks 'in memoriam', not discouraged in the least by the lack of appreciation from those around him.

He was also the only one who refused to worry overly much about Molly's condition.

The Weasley Matriarch had held herself together until her child's funeral. She'd accepted quietly and gracefully both the condolences for her loss and the awestruck admiration for her duel with the craziest and most dangerous of Voldemort's supporters.

But when the freshly moved earth had fallen on Fred's grave, she'd broken down.

Her sobbing and weeping and crying and ranting and raving and shouting her grief and hurt and fury and loss and sorrow and outrage, they had coped with.

The silence that had followed, however…

Molly, active, lively, vigorous, energetic, full of life, dynamic, ever-busy Molly, stopped.

She didn't do anything anymore, she barely left her bed in fact.

And she listened with a sad smile to whoever talked to her, but didn't reply, much less volunteer any word of her own.

Arthur had reacted by shutting himself away – spending more and more time at the Ministry and not even dropping by to see her if he was at the Burrow. He slept in Bill's old room.

All of the others, including Harry, were insanely worried, but Ron insisted she'd come out of it eventually, she just needed some time.

The first blow to his optimism came, perhaps predictably, from Percy.

The third Weasley child had gone back to the Ministry right after the funerals had ended.

Not long after that, he'd started regaining all the influence he'd lost and more, by claiming he'd '_always known, realized right from the start of their acquaintance, that Potter was dangerous, unstable'_. Citing his sycophantic stunt under Fudge and Umbridge as '_proof of his unswerving loyalty to the Ministry as a function more important than the people representing it_', as well as his '_good sense in judging characters without being blinded by fickle things like fame…_'.

Pompous arse.

He'd even had the gull to exploit Fred's death to push his career! Portraying himself as a hero of the Hogwarts Battle – Ginny had been spitting mad when she'd seen in an interview that he'd used Fred mock-pompous words about '_looking to our prefects to take a lead at times such as these_' and made himself an example of this – '_grieved like so many others by the sudden loss of a beloved sibling, mourning still and yet knowing that to properly reconstruct their world was the best tribute to the memory of those who had given their life for such a goal…_'

Pompous. Arse.

Of course, people were drinking it down like there was no tomorrow. Couple more speeches like that, Harry thought, and he'd be on the fast track for the Minister's chair.

As sad and disappointing as Percy's behaviour was, however, the real shock had come from Arthur Weasley.

"That Percy was an opportunistic jerk, I knew already", Ron had told Harry. "The Twins…", he had paused here, wordlessly swallowing for a moment as the sudden painful memory of Fred had risen in him, "the Twins used to say he must have been adopted. Switched at birth. Something. Well, guess what?", he'd asked bitterly. "He wasn't. He comes by it honestly. Takes after Dad, wouldn't you know. Dad!"

Arthur had quickly built a following for himself in the 'new' Ministry.

His well-known and largely admired role in the war, his wife's awe-inspiring and much celebrated duel, his close association with Dumbledore and – initially – with Harry, combined with his long-standing web of friendly relations in the 'old' Ministry and his reputation as a good, respectable and disinterested man, had given him an ample base of support.

He'd been chosen almost unanimously to lead the Special Jury for War Crimes that was tasked with holding the Death Eaters' trials (the Wizengamot was far too compromised to be trusted with the job).

He'd thrown himself in the role with more than just zeal – with _relish_.

His popularity had grown with every harsh sentence and soon there had been talk of electing him Minister.

It was perhaps just a matter of time before the widespread 'anti-Potter' trend got to him. He hadn't joined the bandwagon, but he _had_ ever-so-gently asked Harry to 'distance himself a bit'.

Harry had just regarded him, hurt and disappointed, and nodded silently. Ron had been anything _but_ silent, and the following row had resembled quite closely an explosion.

When Harry had tried to tell him that he wouldn't take it personally if Ron wanted some space to avoid a break with his family, Ron had succinctly commented: "Leaving you, mate? Been there, done that. Never regretted anything more. _Not happening_."

He'd also wanted to storm out of the Burrow for good, but his relationship with Bill was strained, so escaping to Shell Cottage wasn't an option anymore.

The goblins had sacked the older brother because of the younger one's involvement in the break in. Ron had apologized profusely to Bill, but also told him that he didn't regret it: it had been necessary.

Bill had been both understanding and standoffish. He seemed to realize his brother had been at the heart of the war, with everything that that entailed, but had also taken the loss of his job rather badly.

It was difficult for him, living in post-war Wizarding Britain, hard to meet the distrust and fear his scars – so clearly the work of a werewolf – induced on a daily basis. The goblins were among the few who hadn't minded.

Fleur was trying to convince him that they could be happier abroad, and they were considering a move.

Harry had offered Ron a place at Number 12 Grimmauld Place if he wanted, even for only a few nights. He certainly didn't mind the company.

But then Ron had been distracted by Charlie's accident.

Life was certainly ironic. The energetic dragon lover had managed to survive several years of an extremely dangerous job, not to mention the war, practically without harm, even coming out of the Final Battle with nothing more then a couple scratches and a bruised knee, only to be crippled by a silly accident – a magical monitoring device exploding because of an overcharge and reacting with a brewing potion by sheer coincidence, creating a poisoning fume that had corroded the bone marrow in Charlie's spine.

Magic could easily keep him alive, but he wasn't going to walk ever again.

Perhaps Charlie's condition might have been the occasion to mend some broken bridges in the family. Perhaps it could have brought Arthur and even Percy back to them…

…if it hadn't been for the Resource Saving Act.

Which Arthur had helped create and now, as Hermione very aptly put it, was coming back to bite him in the arse.

To the disbelief and horror of anyone who'd been close to the Weasleys, the man who had chosen his family over anything else, the man who had put his loved ones first time and again… gave up his son for the Minister's office.

Harry had watched him give a sorrow-filled speech about how Charlie's condition made death preferable, and had been unable to stand it.

He'd watched him take over what had been Fudge's office, and had been unable to make himself believe the price had been _anywhere near_ acceptable.

He'd watched his adoptive family crumble, and been helpless to stop it.

As for Ron, he'd spent the night following Charlie's death alone, sitting in the dark with a bottle of firewhiskey which he hadn't touched.

He'd never mentioned another member of his family again, aside for Ginny.

* * *

**Ginny**…

Harry reflected morosely that Ginny wasn't really Ginny any longer.

She'd changed so much from the girl who had kissed him on his seventeenth birthday.

She was a woman now, and a leader.

Harry remembered her as a tough little lady, but the resolute woman she was now was another matter entirely. Sheer steel, moulded and hardened in the forge of the war.

They had all grown up too soon, their generation, but somehow Ginny seemed to have matured beyond any of them. Of their little group of friends, she was the youngest, and yet she looked the oldest. Disenchanted; disillusioned; determined; Harry didn't know how to relate to her anymore.

He loved her still – he was sure he always would; he didn't know how to show it anymore, not in a way that could reach her.

She didn't smile anymore, and Harry missed the lively sparks in her eyes so badly it was almost a physical ache.

She was a stranger, beautiful and strong and at times almost scary.

Perhaps it was because she had taken over the role that had belonged to her mother, by her own choice and yet unwillingly, a Matriarch not even of age yet, bearing the burden of a family that was collapsing.

She wouldn't hear her friends' concerns, though. Molly was lost, she pointed out, someone had to step up and do what was needed.  
Fists clenched and jaw firmly set, she played a part she didn't want but felt was her duty.

That attitude, Harry understood all too well and he remembered how lonely a path it always is; yet he was unable to be for Ginny what Ron and Hermione had been for him. He couldn't reach her.

He visited her, finding her cleaning the Burrow or assisting her mother or tiding up after George or in a screaming match against Percy or trying without success to talk some sense into her father, and each time she would look a little more weary, a little more worn, and each time he felt more helpless, unable to support her, unable to relieve her, unable even to find a place for himself in her life, however small.

His visits grew more and more apart.

He wished for the sparkling girl he'd dated to come back.  
He wished he was strong enough or good enough to enjoy the grim woman she had become just as much.  
Neither option seemed within reach.

When he finally gave up and stopped dropping by the Burrow, he felt horrible; Ginny barely noticed.

She was running herself into the ground and despite this, her family was falling apart; the little light left in her eyes dimmed a bit more with every one of her perceived failures.

The hardest to take of such 'failures' had been George.

They'd all know that he would not cope well with the loss of his twin. Their entire life, the two had spent almost every instant together, and the bonds forged by sharing so much of oneself with another cannot be broken without dire, painful consequences.

Predictably, George had fallen into a depression.

Ginny had tasked herself with caring for him and 'nursing him back to life'.

She kept her room clean; forced him to eat something everyday; insisted that he get some sleep; woke him up from his nightmares; coaxed him into a change of clothes or a shower; talked him into visiting his joke shop, which Verity was managing for the moment, with occasional help from Harry or Lee Jordan; she made an effort to act cheerful around him, despite the fact that it taxed her.

It was mostly in vain, however: George was… unresponsive. Apathetic.

The only reaction that could be drawn from him was if anyone touched Fred's things. Ginny had tried a few times to pack them up, only to see George rouse from his stupor and methodically strew them around again, in precisely the same untidiness they'd been in before.

Harry had spent many an afternoon just sitting with the former prankster in the back garden where Ginny had placed him, both silently contemplating their own sorrows. George never stirred, never talked, he didn't even sigh.

Harry had grown accustomed to Ginny's displeased frown: she wanted him to try and draw her brother out and wasn't happy with his lack of efforts.

Charlie's accident however had diverted her from her hovering care of the broken twin, as she had been forced to divide her attention between the two, in addition to everything else she was handling.

Bill and Fleur, about ready to move abroad, had offered to take Molly with them, to relieve Ginny of at least one 'burden', and between the necessary preparations and the constant attentions Charlie required, she'd been… preoccupied.

Her distraction had been the occasion for George to up and disappear.

No one had seen hide nor hair of him since. No one had heard a thing. All of his things, as well as Fred's, had vanished as well.

Harry had received an official parchment saying he was the new owner of WWW, and a probably self-taken picture of George in travelling robes, a backpack filled to the brim at his side. Nothing else, not even a line.

Ginny had taken it badly. She'd tried frantically to find him, but any search seemed to end almost before it could start.

Then Charlie's death had plunged her into guilt. She wondered constantly if she could have prevented it, had she remained around to stop her father instead of fruitlessly looking for George.

She'd given up then.

She'd stopped cleaning and tiding up and taking care of both the Burrow and herself.  
She didn't eat much anymore. She tried to avoid sleep.  
She'd taken to wear humongous, shapeless clothes in indefinable colours, that hung gracelessly on her thinning frame.  
She'd cut her hair so short it was barely recognizable as red.  
She outright refused to talk to her father, despite his many attempts, and she hexed Percy on sight.

After a while Ron, who'd grown more and more concerned for his baby sister, had bundled her up and settled her at Harry's place, where he himself already unofficially lived.

It hadn't made any difference in her routine.

That is, until Draco, in a surprising bout of generosity, had hunted down and restored the Blacks' practice target. He claimed to have had a similar one at Malfoy Manor and that it was used to train for duels. It recorded every hit along with its strength and precision and progressively adjusted in size, material and position of the highest scores to offer increasingly difficult challenges, eventually moving about the wall it was hung onto.

Ginny had exhausted herself against it and slept peacefully for the first time in ages.

The following day Luna had disappeared to somewhere and returned with a set of shiny throwing daggers, which Draco had considered an affront to the target, much to Harry's and Ron's amusement.

Ginny had fallen upon them like a starving wolf on a bone and since then she could be found at any hour in the room with the target, perfecting her aim and the strength of her throws with single-minded focus.

* * *

**Draco**…

The Death Eaters' trials had started immediately after the final Battle. So soon, in fact, that Lucius Malfoy had been Kissed before Harry had even managed to get around and ask about Narcissa Malfoy and her family.  
He kind of felt he owed her some assistance, even if he wasn't _entirely_ sure he wanted to help the likes of _them_; but at any rate, he'd been too late for her husband.

The speed with which Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced disturbed him somewhat.

It was disconcerting. Sure, the man deserved it. There was no doubt whatsoever in Harry's mind. Whatever the blond aristocrat had been sentenced to, he'd been due it. _Over_due it.

But still…

Perhaps though, it hadn't been the sentence. Perhaps it hadn't been its… timeliness… either.  
Perhaps it had been Arthur Weasley's gleeful face in pronouncing it.  
Yes, that was it. It had been… wrong. It had made Harry uneasy.

Harry could understand the man's pride in such an assignment. Not only was it an important and appreciated task: Harry had long suspected that the only thing that could appeal to the Weasley Patriarch more than his muggle 'toys' would be capturing the likes of Lucius Malfoy. Jubilation was perhaps expected.

Harry could also understand the rewarding satisfaction of a job well done, and of knowing deep inside that you have done something right, to protect the innocents, the weak. He himself had felt only relief after Vodemort's death, and tiredness, but he had expected fulfilment, triumph, elation. He was not surprised to find them in others.

But petty, malicious glee… It bothered him.

It had been Luna – big surprise there – who had helped him figure it out.

"It's because we're supposed to be better than them. We're the good guys, or so we tell ourselves. We're supposed to be Good. Just. Selfless. Merciful." She'd looked at him inscrutably. "Of course, we're only human. It is impossible to be truly, completely good. But some, like you, try their best nonetheless and so are distressed when they meet those who don't care about the distinction between Good and Evil beyond a few empty words."

He had recognized the truth in her words, but they had left him dissatisfied and uneasy.

He'd stopped thinking about Lucius Malfoy at any rate, but had doubled his efforts to help Narcissa.

His friends didn't understand. Why should he care for a woman that was an enemy, a woman that had supported beliefs wrong on too many levels to name, a woman that would have watched him die dispassionately?

The only answer Harry could come up with was: "Because someone has to."

It sounded weak to his own ears, but also very, very right.

Luckily neither her nor her son had been deemed important enough to warrant any immediate attention. They were just being detained indefinitely.

Despite his waning influence, he'd been able to secure a release for her with relative ease, provided she paid a rather large fine. His conscience quieted, he'd let the entire mess rest.

A few days later, however, he'd received a moving letter, in which Narcissa thanked him for his help and then explained that she'd bargained herself for her son's life and freedom. He'd read it three times in a row before he'd understood it correctly.

It had been delivered at the same time as the newspaper heralding Narcissa Black Malfoy's death, with full side serving of macabre details and gossipmongers' unwarranted opinions. It stated that she'd held her own son under Imperius for years.

Harry had sat in shock for a long time.

Then – to the absolute bewilderment of his friends – he'd gone and checked up on Draco Malfoy.

He couldn't explain it even to himself but, well… He knew what it was like, that kind of love, that kind of sacrifice, he knew very well what it was like to be the son surviving such a mother.  
He felt a kinship with the blond that he didn't like but acknowledged nonetheless.

Malfoy had looked awful, pasty and bony and sick from his months in Azkaban, which even without Dementors wasn't exactly a holiday resort. His red eyes and raw voice testified to his grief, a sorrow not unlike that of so many others, on both sides of the war.

He'd been positively rude, but Harry hadn't let it bother him, merely told him in a terse and efficient tone: "I'm not here to get you to like me. I just want to know if you can get out of the country on your own. If you can't, I'll pay for your transportation."

The Ministry had confiscated every drop of the Malfoy fortune they could get their covetous hands on, but all holdings and incomes handled abroad were safe from their greed. Harry was pretty sure Malfoy would never want for anything if he just got out of England and in his mind, helping him to get lost was a good enough way to silence his own conscience without too much hassle.

Malfoy had stared at him incredulously, then glanced away, as if ashamed, before reluctantly admitting that he was on 'probation' and forbidden from leaving the country. A convenient loophole that made sure the Ministry could get him to transfer his money here, since he was unable to go abroad. _Then_ they could confiscate it.

Harry had closed his eyes, counted to one hundred, cursed his saving people thing in every language he knew and a few he invented on the spot, and told Malfoy there was a free room he could use at the Blacks' townhouse.

Nobody had been happy with the arrangement at first, not even Draco.

But after a while Harry had started noticing that the blond was spending more and more time with Luna. And that he looked more relaxed and far less haunted around her.

Then he started noticing how Luna would oh-so-casually mention this or that little episode from their Hogwarts time or the war, and how it would always be something if not positive at least neutral about Malfoy.

Like how he'd been fairly blind to the DA activities against the Carrows on a number of occasions...  
Or how he'd secretly brought her and Ollivander some food during their imprisonment...  
Or how he'd looked after the younger Slytherins with great care in their last year at Hogwarts…

Guessing where she was going, Harry had resignedly opposed very little resistance when she'd insisted they call him Draco. The others had scorned her - Ron for one was sticking to 'Ferret-boy' - but Harry had capitulated rather easily.

He was uncomfortably aware that his own memories of the blond included instances in which Malfoy's gaunt, petrified face and the use to which he was being put by Voldemort had sickened him, eliciting sympathy and compassion for the other boy. And the desperate look in the blond's eyes when he'd lowered his wand on top of the Astronomy tower was burned into Harry's memory.

Perhaps civility towards him wasn't outside the realm of reason after all.

At least Draco seemed grateful to Luna. He only seldom made an effort to get along with the rest of the group, but always welcomed Luna's every overture with both relief and appreciation.

In fact, after a while his courtesy towards her had managed to arise a radically different concern in Harry.

As a consequence of his suspicions, he'd cornered Draco one afternoon while the blond was getting some ice-cream from the kitchen's preservation cupboard.

"You seem to be awfully close to Luna", he'd pointed out straightforwardly.

Draco had looked alarmed for an instant, then had sneered: "Whatever you're getting at, Potter, just spit it out!"

Harry had been rather amused by that. "Do you _really_ want to get the big brother's speech, Draco?", he'd drawled. "Because I got it from each and every Weasley and by now I'm pretty sure I could give you nightmares at the mere idea of hurting my baby sister, even accidentally, if I put my mind to it."

Draco had paled and scowled, throwing the box of ice-cream on the table. "I've got enough nightmares on my own, Potter", he'd muttered, sinking dejectedly on the nearest chair. Harry hadn't been impressed. They _all_ had nightmares after all.

Draco had stared resolutely at a spot on the table. "I don't… _fancy_… Luna", he'd said slowly. "Since when is she your sister, anyway?"

The question was petulant and Harry had given him a flat look, letting him know he wasn't going to be distracted from his line of questioning.

Draco had sighed and then said haltingly, as if every word required an effort: "Remember… remember when you found me… in Myrtle's bathroom?" He'd ignored Harry's wince. "You weren't the only one."

"Oh!" Harry had taken a chair for himself then and conjured two spoons, drawing the box of ice-cream closer. "All right".

Draco had stared at him incredulously. "That's it? _All right?_"

Harry had smiled kindly, a spoon held out towards the blond, the other already sinking into the ice-cream. "Sure, you don't have to explain."

"I don't?"

"Unless you want to", had said Harry in a helpful tone.

The blond had just shaken his head dazedly. "First you corner me, then you say I don't have to explain? What the hell, Potter!"

Harry had left Draco's spoon on the table and set about devouring the ice-cream with gusto.

"Well, I know what kind of effect Luna's talks generally have", he explained nonchalantly, his mind on a particular one, right after Sirius' death. "It's good to know someone could get you over yourself." He'd winked and put another spoonful of ice-cream in his mouth.

Draco had watched him eating for a while, bemused.

Then he'd picked up the spoon with a sigh and joined him. "She has a much gentler approach to people crying than yours, at least". A heartbeat. "More confusing, too."

Harry had smiled knowingly. "Comforting."

Draco had looked startled, then slowly nodded, and smiled a little too. Then he'd jerked the box of ice-cream towards himself: "You prat! I wanted some chocolate flavoured too!"

After that conversation, Harry had found it much easier to be around the other boy, though they weren't friends or anything.

To the bewildered Ron, he'd simply said: "Blame the ice-cream". The poor red-head had steered clear of it ever since.

* * *

**Harry**…

He hadn't been particularly bothered by the way everyone but a select few had turned on him right after he'd saved them.

Disappointed, yes, saddened perhaps, but neither surprised nor really upset. He was far too used to it.

No, it was seeing his friends' lives and happiness fall apart that he found devastating. It tore at him not to be able to do anything to help, beside offering his home as sanctuary and refuge.

Still, he remained the steadier rock among them, holding on under the blows Fate kept dealing without mercy, continuing to take care of them as best he could.

Nothing the rest of the world threw at him could really upset him, as long as he had his little family close.

As for his extended family… he grieved, and suffered, and hoped against hope that he could save them from themselves… but in the end, even their misery and loss couldn't overwhelm him.

The only thing that truly came close to destroy him was being denied someone that should have been as dear and as close as a son to him.

Andromeda Tonks refused to let him anywhere near his own godson.

He'd never particularly liked her and, as it turned out, she didn't like _him_. At all.

He hadn't even managed to see little Teddy for real. She wouldn't have him close to the baby. She refused to acknowledge her grandson's parents' wishes and Harry's rights. And when Harry got exasperated enough by her rebuffing to _demand_ an explanation… she'd exploded, accusing him of all sorts of horrors, first and foremost the death of her only child.

She'd gone to court shortly after, seeking a restraining order against him. It had caught Harry completely off-guard and he'd been out of his depths in the situation.

Hermione had tried to help, but smart as she might be, she was nonetheless only eighteen and had no real experience of legal battles. Plus she relied heavily on her knowledge of muggle law, and unfortunately, the wizarding world was far more backwards in this particular area.

Neville too, had lent a hand at first, but soon he'd had his own hopeless battle to handle.

Arthur Weasley could have been a great help, but it hadn't taken long for Harry to realize that he covertly sided with Teddy's grandmother.

The entire battle had been doomed to failure from the very start.

Later on, Draco had offered his assistance, sharing what he knew about pureblood laws and the magic of the godfather-godchild bond, that Harry might be able to invoke. It had been an unexpected gesture on the blond's part and Harry had been equal parts taken aback and thankful.

It had helped, too, for a while – until Mrs. Tonks' lawyers had twisted their cooperation into something wicked and pointed at Harry's 'consorting' with Draco as the evidence of his unsuitability to being around children, godfather or not.

What little sympathy Draco had gained form being a well-known 'victim' to his 'depraved mother's cruelty' was lost as he suddenly became the root of all evil and living proof of Harry's darkness.

The final verdict had excluded him from the baby's life, with no chance of appeal.

This last blow, coming after the collapse of the Weasley family, Hermione's depression, Neville's losses, Luna's sorrows and the too many disillusions the wizarding world kept throwing at him without pause, had brought him almost to his breaking point.

He had turned then to the only thing he had always found comfort and purpose in: taking care of his friends. Looking after others was his only hope of remaining strong and sane.

He'd decided to start by getting Hermione back on her feet, since she looked like she was in the worst condition.

And this, in a roundabout way, was what had brought into existence The Plan.

* * *

_A/N 2: Well... that's that. All the sad background from the HP universe is in the open - over and done with. Now on with The Plan..._


	3. Fitting

_**Disclaimer**: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others, I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

_In particular, a lot of the ideas thrown__ around in this chapter, on the nature of multiverse and such, come from the works of: _

_William James__, philosopher and psychologist, who __coined the Multiverse in 1895;  
Hugh Everett, __physicist, who first proposed the many-worlds interpretation (MWI) of quantum physics __in 1957;  
Steven Weinberg, Nobel Prize in Physics (1979)__, whose divulgation works include mercifully comprehensible analogies;  
Philip Pullman, who wrote the majestic, wonde__rful trilogy His Dark Materials;  
Hiromu Arakawa, author of Fullmetal Alchemist;  
Square Enix__, that developed and published some of the best video games around, including – for the purposes of this disclaimer – the __Chrono__ series…_

…_a__nd of course, the Absolute Best Author Ever, and only known Mapmaker of a Sense of Humour, Terry Pratchett, to whom goes a special mention - because of quantum._

_**Warnings **for Chapter __Three: pseudoscientific mumbo-jumbo abounds in these waters. Thread carefully._

* * *

Three. Like Pieces of a Jigsaw Puzzle

Harry sighed wearily and opened his eyes again.

The past was the past. It was better left alone. Now they had to look to the future, and to The Plan.

He cleared his throat, and six pair of eyes that had been gazing into nothing snapped up at him.

He contemplated his friends for a long moment.

Ron sitting on the carpeted floor, his long legs stretching under the small table. Neville and Luna sitting side by side on the sofa. Draco slouching on an armchair with none of his usual poise. Ginny stretched carelessly on the other sofa, opposite Luna. And Hermione, tightly curled in a tense ball at Ginny's feet.

His resolve firmed as he held their eyes in turn, became as strong and as unyielding as the hardest steel.

Yes. They had a future now. It was time to grab it.

"Right", he said strongly. "Hermione, let's go over The Plan one more time and then let's get it started!"

* * *

The Plan, as they had come to refer to it, was born out of his own attempt at getting Hermione to take interest in _something_ – anything – again.

He'd figured books would be the way to go, Hermione being Hermione, and so he'd bullied her into 'helping' restore the old books of the Blacks' private collection, many of which were damaged, the pages turned brown and brittle with age.

He actually didn't know much about the process of rehabilitating old books to their original condition but she, predictably, did. In fact it turned out she'd even helped out Madam Pince a few times back in Hogwarts and had learned a number of weird spells for bookbinding or reinforcing original materials or permanently conjuring missing parts.

At first she hadn't been very responsive, barely going through the motions, but Harry had held fast to the conviction that handling books which screamed '_rare knowledge here, read me!_' would tempt her to take up reading and researching and by extension living once more.

He'd been right.

Within two days she'd stopped working on the cracked and dried out covers and instead buried herself among the yellowish pages, occasionally fretting about for a piece of parchment on which to take notes.

Satisfied that she wasn't wasting away on a sofa anymore, Harry had contentedly left her to it, trusting that she was on the mend at long last.

Wondering about what to make into his next priority, he'd checked on Ron and Draco, finding both red-faced and hurtling insults at their respective great-great-grandfathers (not altogether an uncommon sight); he'd consequently decided that _that_ was a fight for another day and instead moved on to trying and getting Ginny to eat properly again.

* * *

Some days later, he'd been in the kitchen attempting to teach Luna how to make an omelette – a rather complicated endeavour as she kept being distracted by the comparative size-to-taste ratio of eggs of different birds and the heretofore unsuspected possibility of Moon Frogs eggs being mistaken for common hen eggs.

Since he regarded the return of her Magizoologist vocation as a positive sign, he wasn't rebuking her in the least, but it was making his job of saving the poor omelette quite harder.

Hermione had burst into the kitchen with the violence of a hurricane wind and dumped a stack of books on the wooden table with a resounding thud. They'd promptly slid every which way but she hadn't cared and had merely cried triumphantly: "I've found the answer!"

Harry, scrambling to steady the pots and pans that he and Luna had upturned when Hermione had forcefully started them, was too distracted to figure out what she was on about.

Not so Luna, whom nothing could ever take aback, and who had promptly clapped her hands and asked happily "Oh, so you know where the Blibbering Humdingers nest, then? I've always wondered…"

Hermione, momentarily derailed from her enthusiasm, had regarded her blankly.

From the old sofa where he'd been sprawled, doing absolutely nothing, Draco had snorted: "Please. Blibbering Humdingers don't exist, therefore they don't nest", he'd said dismissingly. "Besides, knowing Granger, she wouldn't get excited over something so _common_."

Then he'd asked mockingly: "Did you find the answer to the Secret of Existence, Granger?"

She'd shot him a look that was just short of loathing and had replied smugly: "As a matter of fact, I have."

Harry, finally tuning back into the conversation, had spotted the angry comeback on the tip of Draco's lips and hurriedly intervened: "Wow, great, it's fantastic, congratulations! Care to share?"

She'd turned to him, impending fight already forgotten, and had pointed solemnly at the books on the table.

Wiping his hands on a kitchen cloth, Harry had drawn nearer and picked up the closest one, which seemed surprisingly recent judging by the print and the state of the cover.

_Analysis of Magical Manipulation __in Intertemporal and Interdimensional Transformations. _Great… the kind of book you need a PhD to read the title of… figures, he'd thought.

He'd skimmed the table of contents, a few of the chapter titles jumping to his eyes: _Singular Worlds Theory and Preservation of Established Timelines - Missing Piece Theorem - Principle of Discarded Timelines - Relativistic Time Flow Principle - Origin of Dimensions__**…**_

He'd raised his eyebrows at Hermione. She couldn't seriously expect him to read that stuff, could she? It might as well have been written in Sanskrit! Did she truly imagine he could get the point she was trying to make with no clearer clues?

Luna in the meanwhile had picked up a slightly older-looking volume and read aloud a few lines from its Introduction:

"_It is the Aim of this Compendium to explore by Observation and Speculation the manifest Rules shaping Time in Our World, so as to understand the Boundaries within which Magic can assist Us in the Risky Endeavour of Changing History through judicious Employ of Temporal Redirections Tools, as well as discuss those Theories which play a larger Role in tidying the Effects of such a Use of Magic…"_

"It sounds like the extended version of _How To Use Time Travel To Fix A Thing Or Two_", she'd commented serenely. "Absolute silliness. Time travelling never worked and never will, you know. The Conservation of Time Theorem proves as much."

Harry had stared between her and Hermione and wondered if he had more than a snowball's chance in hell to come out of the likely-to-follow debate with his brain intact or if he should just pack and run before the poor thing melted under the pressure.

Sighing, he'd decided to make somewhat of an effort towards some form of understanding, for friendship's sake.

"Oookay…", he'd drawled out. "Now, for those of us who can't make Leaps of Faith in the Glorious Search for Knowledge… do you mind voicing the explanation that has you looking like the cat that got the cream? Preferably with small words. And pictures!"

Draco's muffled laugh had earned the blond a scowl but Hermione was already huffing impatiently: "Here, look", she'd searched frantically for a moment among the volumes and finally come up with a bookmarked page, displayed for Harry to read.

He'd obliged: "_There are an infinite number of parallel realities coexisting with us, but as we're not in tune with them we cannot perceive them. There are probably other parallel universes in our living room. In other words, the world is not just a single entity: there are countless realities that progress on their own and house their respective timelines. The parallelism of such different dimensions allows for the speculations on the nature of bridges between realities…"_

The style of this book had seemed a little less technical then the previous one, perhaps. The contents, however, were just as alien to Harry as the previous Sanskrit-like stuff.

Glancing around, he'd caught Draco's gaze. The blond had looked just as lost – only he was bored and dismissive about it rather than awkward like Harry felt.

He'd forced himself to read it once more, though without much hope that it would make more sense the second time. _There are probably other parallel universes in our living room…_

Harry'd cast a doubtful look around, unwilling to voice what he was actually thinking in the face of Hermione's enthusiasm. She'd seemed to guess anyway.

"Just because we are unable to see or touch the alternate realities, doesn't mean they aren't there. Honestly! Have you no imagination whatsoever?"

"I suppose…" Harry had still felt as helpless as a lone penniless tourist in Outer Manchuria.

"Think, Harry!" Hermione's fervour was not to be deterred. "Another world similar to this one exists in another dimension right beside our own. A world of possibilities that might have existed, a whole history that has not been written yet... It is out there somewhere... We are simply unable to see, feel, or experience it. Parallel worlds, never to cross each other, yet existing alongside one another..."

He'd watched her wax poetical, stars in her eyes. He'd been unwilling to admit he still didn't see the greatness in all this. Draco had had no such qualms.

Luna, on the other hand, seemed to have grasped the core of the matter. She'd held up a tome on whose spine Harry could make out the words _The Fabric of Reality._

"_Separate universes exist alongside one another in what can be described as a parallel configuration. The universes never cross or intersect; they exist independently of one another with separate, divergent histories…_

…_This establishes the idea of alternate worlds or various universes in addition to our own that have their own histories and timelines. As they never intersect, residents of one dimension have no awareness of the other world, and vice-versa; additionally, travel is not normally possible_", she'd read, and looked pointedly at Hermione.

The brown-haired witch in turn had narrowed her eyes angrily.

The exchange had done nothing to clear up Harry's confusion.

Luna had offhandedly commented: "You look a bit lost, Harry. In dire need of a map for this jungle of theories, I dare say."

"Lost? No, I was lost from word one. Now I'm _beyond_ lost, Luna. I'm painstakingly threading through a tropical rain forest that will likely turn out to be on the wrong fucking continent altogether!"

A guffawed laugh had come from the blond on the sofa. Hermione had sulked.

He'd taken a deep breath and tried hard to make some sense of it all. "What, exactly, do you mean by alternate 'dimensions'?"

"Dimensions are self-contained universes, simply put."

Harry had closed his eyes and prayed for patience. "Hermione, my darling sister, shall we discuss the meaning of 'simply'?"

She'd blown out her breath, exasperated. "Ok, you know the radio?"

Harry had nodded, finally feeling on firmer ground. He'd noticed that Draco had almost unwillingly done the same, proving he was paying attention too.

"Think of the world as a radio. There are hundreds of different radio waves being broadcast all around you from distant stations. Right?"

Nods.

"At any given instant, your office or car or living room is full of these radio waves. However if you turn on a radio, you can listen to only one frequency at a time."

More nods.

"Each station has a different frequency, a different energy and these other frequencies are not in phase with each other. As a result, your radio can only be turned to one broadcast at a time."

They'd nodded a third time, a little wary of where this was going but following so far.

"Likewise, in our universe we are tuned into the frequency that corresponds to physical reality. But there are an infinite number of parallel realities coexisting with us in the same room, although we cannot tune into them."

Harry had let this sink in.

"Ok", he'd eventually said with some caution. "So the world is in fact a lot of worlds, only none of the people on the various worlds know about the other worlds or can make any actual use of them?"

Maybe if he translated everything Hermione said in down-to-earth-speech he would have a chance to keep up with her after all, he'd thought.

"And this is important because…", he'd trailed off leadingly and Hermione hadn't disappointed.

"These works here", she'd tapped the nearest cover smartly, "establish that, in fact, many other dimensions _can_ and _do_ exist, featuring their own distinct histories and events. Events that are _different from our reality_. If we manage to reach such alternatives, we will find ourselves in a different world entirely, a world where things have gone differently than in ours! We would find out what _might have been_!"

She'd looked at him expectantly.

He'd looked back blankly.

"Like… if Voldemort had won?"

Hermione had seemed shocked. "No!" She'd bitten her lip, suddenly frowning. "No, I don't mean… that is, _yes_, there are probably dimensions where… where he killed you…"

Everybody had shuddered at the thought – even Draco.

For a minute it had seemed as if she had deflated. A moment later, though, she'd seemed to recover her confidence. "But that's not what I'm getting at!"

She'd gathered her thoughts for a moment. "I don't want a world like that, I… Just think!" She'd entreated earnestly.

_Want?_ Harry had wondered, with a sudden suspicion about where her real interest lay, _she wants a new world?_

"Think, Harry! _We could start over!"_

Ok, so _that_ was it. Well, Harry could see the appeal in that, at least. Not only for Hermione, who was living with heart wrenching regrets, but for himself as well – probably for all of them.

Except for the tiny little insignificant detail he felt the need to point out: "But hasn't Luna just told us that _cross-dimensional_ _travel is not normally possible?"_

"Yes, I did", had chimed in Luna, who apparently had decided to perch on the table swinging her legs back and forth while Harry was distracted.

Hermione had thrown her hands in the air in vexation. "We just have to find a way!"

"And if there is none?" had asked Draco snidely.

"There is a way!" had cried Hermione obstinately. "There _is! _And I'm going to find it. I'm going to travel to another dimension!"

There. She'd said it. Harry had known her well enough to recognize the stubborn 'I'm going to free all House-elves in spite of their own wishes' look at once. She would do it. No matter what.

And really, he _had_ seen her point. The mirage of another chance… a better outcome… Not that he wanted to go through the bloody war again, but…

He'd felt the labels 'tempting' and 'farfetched' warring in his head.

Ron had chosen that moment to come waltzing in, grab an apple from the preservation cupboard and plop down on a chair.

"So what are we doing?" he'd asked cheerfully.

"Planning to go Dimension Hopping, apparently", Harry had answered, completely ignoring Draco's spluttered _'We!'_.

Ron had blinked, apple forgotten.

"Here are the instructions", had added Harry helpfully, passing him _A Compendium of Axioms And Corollaries Governing Space-time Transformations._

Ron had carefully lifted the cover and peered inside. "Right… where's the beginner's version, please?"

* * *

Hermione hadn't relented in the least and had unwearyingly explained her theories over and over again to anyone willing to listen (as well as anyone not willing but happening to be in her vicinity).

Despite this, it had taken a few days before the matter was brought up again in earnest, this time with everyone present.

"So how do you plan on _getting_ to this Other Dimension of yours?" Draco had asked.

"Still working on it."

Draco had snorted. Hermione had ignored him.

"Most likely we'll be travelling through a wormhole or something of the sort", she'd mused.

The guys had nearly choked on their incredulous laughter. Harry had caught Ron mouthing _worm-hole? _and quickly glanced away to muffle his chuckles.

It had been Draco who'd braved an explanation (or an hex, depending on Hermione's mood) by asking what the hell a wormhole was.

"What Muggle scientists call a 'wormhole' is, well, a tunnel, if you will, connecting two otherwise-distant regions or times in the universe. It is theorized, though not confirmed, that wormholes might allow time travel or fast passage throughout the universe."

Harry had mentally translated this as best he could. "So… they're kind of like a shortcut through the space-time thingy?" he'd ventured to ask.

Hermione had beamed. "Exactly!"

Wow, he was getting good at this.

"Why do they have such a stupid name?" had muttered Ron.

Hermione had snapped at him. "It's a _metaphor_! Imagine a worm travelling around an apple's skin; if he instead burrows directly through the apple to the other side, he saves time and has utilized a 'wormhole'. Hence the name."

"It's still stupid" had sulked Ron.

"Back to the 'theorized but not confirmed' part…" had intervened Draco.

* * *

The discussions from that point onward had been long, frequent and passionate.

At times even _too_ passionate, like the evening when Hermione had found in Luna a tough opponent for her umpteenth debate over the 'Gate Between Realities Theory'.

The blonde had tried to make Hermione see her point about her idea of realities being like planes set atop each other with space between, with some points that dip, nearly touching each other, representing the possibilities of contact and perhaps 'connecting tunnels' (though Harry wasn't clear on whether these 'points' were places, items, distortions in the fabric of magic, entities – people? – with less tenuous connections than usual to the other dimensions or some other physical phenomenon. Understanding Luna was hard work at the best of times).

Still, Harry had to admit, it sounded better than Hermione's idea of dimensions being separated by treacle-like veils you could cut with a 'knife' of sorts (probably metaphorical, tough you never knew with magic) and carve passages ('Gates') through.

He hadn't known whether to be surprised or not when Luna had produced a booklet titled _On the formation of contact points and the resulting possibility of dimensional travel therein _apparently from nowhere, but anyway he'd listened in fascination, even if the long-winded explanation about 'Keystone Dimensions' had been completely over his head.

__All in all, he'd felt that the whole idea of changing worlds was growing on him.

Ginny, on the other hand, had sat sullenly scowling the whole time and finally, a comment of Hermione's on the possibility of opening a gate randomly by simply cutting the fabric of reality had made her explode.

"That's completely idiotic!" she had barked jumping to her feet, fury in her eyes. "I can't believe you're suggesting something so, so… farfetched!"

"It's not farfetched! Just because it hasn't been proved yet…"

"You can't seriously think we'll let you drag on with this absurdity!"

Hermione had scowled. "Well nobody's asking _you_ to cooperate! I'm perfectly ok with going _alone_!"

"You won't be going alone! Because you're not going at all! It would be folly to risk it!" she'd shouted furiously, then added in a sing-song tone: "_You got to be careful if you don't know where you're going, because you might not get there_!_"_

Harry'd thought that sounded like a quote. A very sensible one at that.

It had been in this moment that the previously forgotten, silent form of Neville had stepped in the middle of the argument and commanded everybody's attention with a sharp glance.

He'd turned to Harry and signalled forcefully to 'stay here'. Then he'd vanished noiselessly upstairs.

They'd barely had the time to exchange puzzled glances and he was already back, carrying a trunk.

Harry knew what that was: Neville had kept only three such trunks, of all his inheritance, everything else was either sold in the vain hope of saving his parents, or taken by his Gran. He hadn't known what they contained though, and hadn't pried.

However, Neville had gestured to Harry to open the trunk, so he'd kneeled before it and perused its contents curiously.

There were some small boxes on the bottom, all of which would fit comfortably in the palm of a hand, some folded fabrics that might have been cloaks, a few weird items Harry couldn't guess the use of – he could only identify what looked like a brass compass, though he had no way to guess if it was magical.

Mostly though, the trunk contained books, not a few in an unexpected (for the wizarding world) paperback-binding.

A group of tomes on one side looked like a set of leather-bound journals in which were stuck haphazardly a few loose parchments.

Luna, who had kneeled on his right side, had quickly snatched up one of such volumes.

Her eyes had widened in shock as she scanned its pages.

Curious, Harry had grabbed another one and read aloud a random passage.

"_I have been in this strange world for a few days now… I am starting to wonder if I shouldn't risk another jump. It is hard to relate to a society so alien to me… Only the inherent danger of travelling without a clear destination stops me: my luck, in finding myself in a world with climate and even physical constants not dissimilar from my own, might well not last…"_

He'd felt his jaw drop and had quickly chosen another paragraph, a little further.

"_My first inquires about 'shinobi' and other 'chakra'-users have been met with incomprehension and suspicion… I have not dared ask anymore, for fear of being considered insane, or dangerous…"_

"I think 'chakra' must be a word for 'magic' and maybe 'shinobi' stands for 'wizards'", had mused Luna almost absently.

"…_I have finally stumbled upon a tavern of sorts where I met __'ninjutsu' users…",_ Harry had gone on,_ "It would seem, the 'chakra'-users have not integrated themselves in civilian society here, the way 'shinobi' have back home… they keep themselves apart and hidden…"_

And then: "_I might be able to carve a life for myself in this insular community, though some aspects of its civilization disturb me… I have never before seen 'ninjutsu' so widespread, and more, so carelessly used to such great extent… even the most menial tasks are accomplished through the manipulation of chakra…"_

Harry had felt numb with amazement. It was fascinating to be sure, but he could hardly believe his eyes.

He'd looked up at Neville. The other youth had mimed a tree growing out of his body.

"Genealogical tree?" had guessed Harry, and at his friend's confirmation he'd followed Neville's gestures up the imaginary branches.

"He was your great-grandfather on your mother's side!" he'd exclaimed in wonder. Neville had nodded.

Hermione's eyes had held reverent marvel as she reached for another journal, stroking its spine respectfully.

"And he travelled through dimensions? Suuure…" had snorted Ginny with sarcastic scepticism.

Neville had merely gazed at Ginny in challenge, spreading his hands in a gesture Harry could easily interpret as 'Well, see for yourself!'.

Harry had continued to rapidly skim the text. It was incredibly interesting. The man… Neville's great-granddad… was observant and wrote a lot about the workings of their magical society as it appeared to him, an external yet aware onlooker:

"…_it is my suspicion that the common focus that everyone __wields all the time must act as regulator of the 'chakra' use, thus insuring that their overuse of 'jutsu' does not result in 'chakra'-exhaustion and death…"_

Was he talking about wands? And what was that about exhaustion and death?

Further on: "_I_ _have not seen this society's warriors yet, but I presume they will not be hindered by such 'wands', as these focus quite clearly hamper and weaken the power of the 'jutsu' drastically…"_

A sudden thought had struck him. "How come it's in English?"

After all, whatever the man's own language was, it would have been both easier for him and safer in general to use that, so why was the text written in English?

Ron, leaning over his shoulder, had snorted a laugh: "It's not."

"Huh?"

"I can only see weird looking symbols that kind of remind me of those Chinese ideograms on the I-Ching Trelawney had us study…"

Harry had very nearly panicked, fearing another Parseltongue episode, but Hermione had quickly exclaimed: "In-built translation charm! It allows whoever's touching the text to understand it automatically!"

Luna had chimed in: "Those are pretty difficult and were only invented about a generation ago. Someone in Neville's family must have added it long after the journals were written."

They had all looked up at their tall friend, but Neville could only shrug apologetically. He didn't know.

Harry had returned his gaze to the journal in his hands, leafing through it. Maps, sketches, notes on politics, economics, magical theory, even muggle science… a complete guide to somewhere called The Elemental Countries, with step by step comparisons to their own culture…

Sure it was backwards – the writer was familiar with _that_ culture and fascinated by _this_ one – and it was likely outdated – though hopefully not by much – but still…

He'd looked up at Neville and grinned widely.

"Looks like we've found our destination, guys."

Neville had smiled back.

* * *

After that, preparations had begun in earnest.

They'd distributed the journals among them, knowing they would have to read and study all of them eventually but unwilling to waste time taking turns. They were a truly captivating read.

Hermione was disappointed and dissatisfied that these 'Elemental Countries' seemed to be so different from their own dimension, but mostly the others were relieved: this new world came with no strings attached to the past they were eager to leave behind.

As a consequence, they were also very eager for any and all information that could be gleaned from the journals.

They'd had some difficulties getting to read a few of them, though.

One of the volumes, the most important and dangerous one, that dealt with _how_ the man had travelled through worlds, had turned out to be keyed to Neville's _blood_ of all things, through some sort of complicated symbol that was admittedly a brilliant protection – though where Draco had gotten the idea of smearing it with blood Harry couldn't fathom. Then again, that cave of Voldemort's had opened similarly…

What few information about the author's life were to be found in it amounted to this: he had been a 'Seal Master' – whatever that meant – who made a living by selling his creations – presumably 'Seals'.

He was apparently extremely good at it, despite not being a 'shinobi' – a term that the charm didn't seem able to translate into English but they had agreed to tentatively associate to 'wizard' – and thanks to this he'd acquired a widespread reputation.

This fame had been the origin of his troubles, for it had brought to him a 'kunoichi' - another still-mysterious term, though Luna had suggested it might simply mean 'witch' – 'of the Mist' - which they soon gathered was a country, or perhaps a city.

The 'kunoichi' had had a very peculiar request: she had wanted him to research and eventually come up with a seal that could stop a 'space-time ninjutsu'.

Very few details were given about this 'ninjutsu' – which they'd decided was a spell: merely that the user could "_travel long distances within relatively short time spans"_ and "_teleport anyone by sending them to a place where they are forced to stay until he chooses to release them_".

Furthermore there was a note about the fact that said 'place' was "_apparently a separate dimension_, _seeing as the chakra signatures of those that have been teleported completely vanish until they are returned"._

Neville's ancestor had at first been unconvinced and sceptical, never having heard of such a technique, but slowly he had grown to believe it was, indeed, possible and he had become enthusiastically zealous in his research.

As was his usual _modus operandi_, he had first attempted to find a way to _do_ what he wanted to prevent, before he would have gone on to adapt the Seals to the wished for 'stopping function'.

He'd never managed to go that far, however, because the reason for the 'kunoichi's' request, namely a formidable, much-feared, lethal 'shinobi', had found out about him first – and had not been pleased.

The poor Seal Master had witnessed a horrifying fight between the two, 'shinobi' and 'kunoichi', and he'd been completely stunned at the way the attacker had seemed almost completely impervious to damage. When struck, the 'kunoichi's' attacks passed right through him.

The journal conveyed the wonder Neville's great-granddad had felt when he'd realized that the fighter was using the very same 'space–time ninjutsu' he'd been asked to research to instantly send himself or even parts of his body to different locations, or maybe some sort of void, or another dimension entirely, and then instantly bring them back.

When the 'shinobi' had overcome and brutally killed the 'kunoichi', he'd turned his attention to the Seal Master, who had had a split second to realize he was about to die and, in his desperation to avoid such a fate, had recklessly activated the experimental Set of Seals he'd been working on.

Next thing he knew, he'd awakened on a strand of sand… Elsewhere.

The rest of the journal contained all of the Seal Master's notes and research on that fabled 'Dimension Crossing Set of Seals'.

Hermione had appropriated the text and was soon well on her way to knowing it by heart.

Harry for his part had been fascinated by the story and avidly looked for more recollections in the other journals.

During his perusing, he'd found that one of the parchments, though appearing blank, 'felt weird'. He couldn't explain it better than that, to Draco's disgust, but all of the others were far too used to his 'gut-instincts' to dismiss his warning.

The parchment had promptly been studied, analyzed, prodded and scanned.

When nothing seemed to react to it, Luna had come up with the suggestion that it might be written in Moon Runes.

Hermione and Draco had scoffed, for once in perfect agreement: "Moon Runes are just a ludicrous _muggle_ legend!"

Harry and Ron had shared a confused look.

Luna had merely smiled her Sphinx-like smile and checked the parchment against moonlight every night. Though she'd also left an old copy of the Quibbler, featuring an article on Moon Runes, on Harry's pillow.

Harry had decided that an ink which could only be seen if held against a moon that was in the same phase as it had been at the time the ink had been used sounded fanciful enough to be most likely true in the wizarding world.

Hermione and Draco had mocked him for his 'credulity' and attempted a new set of revealing spells on the blank parchment – to no avail.

Then the two sceptics had had to bite their tongues when Luna had danced in the room they were gathered in one night, moonlight shining through the silvery outline of a circle filled with symbols arrayed in hexagrams, stretching like a spider-web on the parchment.

The subsequent weeks of analysis had brought Hermione close to perfecting the ritual that would take them… Away.

They'd deemed it time to move on to more practical preparations, especially as it had soon become clear that the ritual Hermione was slowly crafting would end up needing _a lot_ of space, not to mention some weird, rare and consequently expensive components. Which only Draco could still afford, as Harry hadn't dared approach the enraged goblins after the war.

Fortunately Draco had not objected, provided they only shopped abroad, and so Ron had had a lot of fun planning out a series of short, whirlwind portkey trips to the farthest ends of the world.

With Draco restricted by law, Harry and Neville regarded with suspicion and Arthur still trying to approach his youngest children at any given occasion, only Luna and Hermione were really free to travel, but as everybody was by now going stir crazy, locked as they were in the grim house, Harry had put his foot down and insisted they take turns.

Hermione had then without the slightest hesitation brewed some Polijuice Potion – much to Draco's astonishment – and Miss Granger and Miss Lovegood had been spotted several times at various portkeys terminals, though the two witches had actually been there in person only a handful of times.

Harry had thoroughly enjoyed his own ten hours stint in Bolivia for Wax Amulets and Wildcrafted Bolivian Chamairo Vine bark, though the abundance of dried aborted baby llamas at the local market had rather disgusted him; he'd liked even more the two days spent in Egypt, sorting through pigments for magical inks (and visiting the Pyramids because, well. It was his only chance after all).

He'd then had a blast comparing notes with Ron, who'd got the task to secure some insufflated plant preparations used as shamanic inebriants in southern Africa and had had an 'eye-opening experience' when he'd insisted he should try them out before buying.

Aside for the 'holidays', they'd divided their time between organizing the departure (packing included) and either studying their destination or researching things they would need once there, from translation spells and household charms to cooking and ways of defending themselves without magic, should it be needed.

* * *

Meanwhile, Harry found himself universally elected as supporter/comforter without his input. He wondered how he could have been chosen; he didn't think he was particularly suited to the task, yet he was forever lending an ear to a distressed friend.

Hermione was actually too excited and feverishly eager about The Plan to have time for doubts and regrets, but she often sought him out to rant about what the others were doing wrong, or to bemoan the lack of quick progress in her research, or simply to natter away about her 'fantastic discoveries'.

Ginny had stormed away the day Neville had given them his trunk, claiming she wanted nothing to do with 'all that nonsense'.

Harry had kept his distance, painfully aware that the strain on their by now non-existent relationship was growing rather than disappearing.

He'd noticed her sneaking downstairs one night, however, and add her own backpack to the pile of others stacked in the kitchen's corner. No matter what she thought of The Plan, she wasn't going to be left behind.

He'd smiled a bit and made sure none of the others mentioned anything the next day.

Neville had been undemanding. Harry had found him in the kitchen very late one night, reading his forefather's journals.

He'd put on some tea and they'd sat together in companionable silence.

Eventually Harry had grabbed Neville's shoulder and met the brown eyes that had moved up to look at him. He'd raised an eyebrow, silently asking 'All right?'

Neville had nodded solemnly and squeezed Harry's arm in return.

No words were needed.

Ron, on the other hand, had managed to dumbfound him.

One day he'd climbed the stairs to fetch something or other, only to be distracted by a rhythmic thumping that upon investigation turned out to be his best friend, furiously kicking the wall on the third floor corridor.

"Whatever it did, I'm sure the wall is sorry by now", he'd said, hoping levity would distract the obviously distraught wizard.

"Well it should be", had been the petulant answer.

Ron had turned to him with bloodshot eyes and Harry had felt the worry mount.

"Ron? Mate, what's wrong?"

Then his best friend had sighed.

"It's Hermione." He'd hurried on at Harry's panicked look: "Oh, she's fine, nothing like that. Just…"

He'd sighed again.

"It's like I don't even exist, Harry. She just goes on with The Plan and her castles-in-the-air and there's never any place for _me_ in those futures she gushes about."

He'd looked forlorn. "Do I really mean nothing to her? I thought…"

Harry had gaped at him. He had not expected this and hadn't been sure he wanted to hear it.

He remembered uncomfortably the instances when he'd found himself the best friend of two people who seemed unlikely ever to speak to each other again and hoped against hope it wouldn't happen again.

Were their troubles really so serious, he'd wondered? The stab of pain at the treacherous thought '_Well yours and Ginny's are _…' hadn't helped.

"I've come to terms with being second best to _you_" Ron had said quietly, making Harry wince. Memories of a Locket Horcrux had risen in him, but Ron just kept talking.

"I've come to terms with being always overshadowed by my brothers… my friends – you, Neville… even my sister… I thought I'd come to terms with it all. Found my place, you know? Things I'm good at, that make me worthy even if I'm not the best."

"Of course you are…" had started Harry only to be interrupted by his best friend, who didn't look like he'd even heard him.

"But this… once more I come in second, Harry, and this time it's to an entire _fucking world._ There will be no chance of winning this. No hope of getting her attention anymore. I can't compete, on _any _level. It's over."

Harry hadn't known what to say to that.

Luna had seemed easier to deal with, that is until he'd been woken at an ungodly hour by the vague but persistent sensation that something was wrong.

Wandering through the dark and silent house, he'd eventually found his blond sister crying her heart out in a nook under the stairs.

Shocked and worried, he'd plopped down beside her, calling out softly, and a moment later he'd found himself with an armful of crying girl.

He'd groaned.

As the saying goes, 'it was far too early in the morning to be early in the morning': how was he supposed to deal with _this_ while half-awake?

It had taken a while to find out what was wrong but in the end Luna had been coherent enough to manage some mumble about 'never seeing Daddy again'.

Harry had felt lost.

He couldn't tell her they would remain, because he wasn't about to leave Hermione, and Neville who seemed taken with the idea, and he himself didn't really have any reason to stay and if he was honest with himself he wanted to go….

He couldn't dismiss her sorrow either, or tell her she was better off without the man, because she was a sister of his heart and she was crying and that was too important to make light of…

He couldn't tell her that everything would be all right, because there was no certainty of this…

To his bewilderment, though, saying nothing at all had worked, for after a while Luna had stopped sobbing and blearily looked at him.

"Thanks, Harry. I'm sorry, I… I just needed a good cry. You know how it is."

Harry didn't, actually, but he'd realized his understanding wasn't required, so he'd just smiled back, hugged her one more time and gone back to bed.

Then it had been Draco's turn to disappear, off sulking somewhere.

Harry had eventually found him hiding away in the dark in Regulus' old room. He'd joined the blond where he was standing, looking out of the window.

"You fit", had said Draco very softly.

"Huh?" had been Harry's intelligent reply.

Draco had glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"The lot of you… the infamous Ministry Six… Harry Potter's Inner Circle…"

Harry had given him a dirty look at that, not liking the reference to Voldemort's.

"But they're not, really, are they? They're not your 'supporters' nor 'followers'… You six… you are a _team_, a tight-knit group, and there is no hierarchy, only the knowledge of your individual role and value… you fit, like wheels of a mechanism, or rather… like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle."

Harry had kept silent, wondering what that was all about.

Draco had gone on: "You work wonderfully well together, because each of you has some strength the others need, some weakness the others cover for, and you accept this fully…

…Granger is the drive, the ambition and the sense. Weaselette is the passion and the force and the daring. Neville is the roots and the steadying influence and the much needed calm. Weasley is the organization and the strategy and the comic relief that keeps you going. Luna… Luna is the vision, the faith and the joy."

He'd paused.

"And you… you, Potter, as disheveled and laidback and stupidly self-sacrificing as you are, you are the heart and glue that keeps the puzzle together, the leader that keeps them together and well looked after and always on the right track…

…_Like a King of Old,_ _the first in every desperate attack, the last in every desperate retreat, laughing louder over a scantier meal than any man in your land, keeping the peace, dispensing justice…"_ he'd murmured as if in a song.

He'd sighed and torn himself from the window.

Harry's mind was reeling and it had taken him a long moment to realize that the odd edge in Draco's voice was… envy? Longing?

He'd spun around just in time to halt the blond in his tracks on the bedroom's doorstep.

"You fit too."

Draco hadn't looked back, but he was at least listening.

"You're a part of the puzzle too, now."

He'd scrambled to find something more, something better to say. This stuff really wasn't his cup of tea.

"You're our coolness, our ruthlessness and… and our good manners and stuff. I mean, our social skills."

A breath, fingers crossed that it would work.

"You're important to us." Merlin, but this was awkward. _Why, oh, why him?_

Draco had turned around then, watching him inscrutably, but even if Harry couldn't decipher it, there was a lot of emotion in his stormy grey eyes.

Then he'd drawn himself up. "I still don't like you, mind."

Harry had nearly collapsed in relief. Mushy sentimental time was over and he didn't seem to have screwed up too badly.

He'd grinned. "Yes, well, I don't like you either. And I fear Ron will call you Ferret till Judgment Day."

Draco's scowl had held a lot of amusement. "Stupid Weasel…"

This episode however had resulted in a renovated enthusiasm on Draco's part, though it was always delivered with his trademark aloofness.

Thus it came about that he invited them all to move to 'his French estate'; and he - _Draco sodding Malfoy_, pureblood supremacist _extraordinaire_ – had recommended (recommended!) that they use the train – the _muggle_ train – in order to escape to France right under the British Ministry's corrupt noses.

It had caught even Harry off guard. As for the others, all but Luna had stared at the blond in utter shock.

He'd merely regarded them coolly, but Harry had a strong suspicion he was laughing himself silly under his cool façade.

Yep. One of them indeed.

"Never thought you'd have it in you, Malfoy", had at long last been Ginny's comment. "Where has your nice, standard, predictable hatred of muggles gone?"

Harry had hid a smirk: "He's hanging out with us now, Gin. Predictability has nothing to do with it."

* * *

And that had brought them here, running through The Plan in a lavish sitting room in a French Chateau.

Hermione winded to a stop and Harry nodded approvingly, noticing that everyone was now alert and focused.

They could start.

"All right, guys. Let's get to it!"


	4. Hope

_A/N__: __About the chapter titles__. I received a few PMs asking where they come from, so for those who are interested…_

_The title of Chapter One was inspired by the music I was listening to at the time, Satyen Thaker's __**Phoenix. Burning Day**__. It has more to do with the chapter content than with the song, however._

_The title for Chapter Two was a quote from the movie __**Blade Runner**__, where Rutger Hauer with his character's last breath says: "And now… all those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain... Time... to die." It seemed fitting._

_The title for Chapter Three is both a reference to the __**saying**__ 'We fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle' and a__** quote**__ I can't remember the origin of about 'investigating the universe' being 'like putting together a giant jigsaw puzzle with many pieces missing' (might have been from Star Trek but I'm really not sure)._

_This chapter has for title a roundabout quotation from Alexander Pope's __**An Essay on Man**__: "Hope springs eternal in the human breast/Man never is, but always to be blest./ The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home/ Rests and expatiates in a life to come"._

* * *

_Disclaimer__: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others, I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

_Warnings__: Hum… nothing in particular I think… a lot of rather thorough explanations... perhaps some mildly coarse language...  
_

_A/N__ 2__: I started writing the actual Ritual taking place and what comes of it, but then I felt like making a last check 'around the house', the way you do when you move… you know, to make sure you haven't left anything vital under that loose floorboard or in that nearly-forgotten cupboard downstairs… _

_Then I checked it all out against my outline, just to make sure I'd covered all the basis and laid the necessary groundwork so I wouldn't have to spring unjustified surprises on my readers later on. _

_This chapter is the result. _

_If you've ever gritted your teeth in front of the far-too-common 'Oh-but-Harry-was-really-a-Metamorphomagus-all-along-honest__!-he-just-didn't-notice-until-the-Author-figured-out-it-was-cool'… you'll understand the need for this chapter. If not… well, take it as a bonus!_

* * *

Four. Like Water that Springs Eternal

It took exactly seven months and three days to set everything up just right.

Well, actually, it took six months and two weeks, plus three days of celebration Ron insisted on most adamantly – '_You don't change fucking dimension of existence any other day, guys!'_ – plus two more weeks waiting for the moon cycle to get to the right astrological configuration, since Luna had inflexibly refused to leave their universe under anything but a new moon – _'Conjunctions add extra power to ritualistic magic! It'll lessen the chances of losing control as well as bless our New Start!'_

Anyway, in the end they had roughly seven months to work out the finer details of The Plan and to prepare themselves for the radical changes awaiting them.

They put the time to good use.

* * *

First and foremost, they studied the journals thoroughly.

Harry found the story of the Seal Master's life fascinating.

Neville had written down his great-grandfather's name as Ainnìleas Ó Deoráin, but the general consensus was that it was a fake name, especially since Luna primly informed them it meant 'child of uncertain parentage; adopted' and 'exiled person'.

Given the man's marriage into an Irish family, they thought it was likely given to him – maybe because no one could pronounce the man's true name, suggested Ron, grumpy because he had the utmost troubles getting translation spells to work, even the in-built one of the journals.

They agreed the name probably hadn't been chosen out of straightforward goodwill, though, and Harry for one preferred to simply call the dimension traveller 'Seal Master'. It kind of felt more respectful.

Neville and Harry spent a lot of time reading together.

Neville, Harry suspected, was loving the chance of reconnecting to his birth family while having his new one close. As for Harry, he would never, ever, _ever_ confess how touching and romantic he found the fact that the man had given up every thought of leaving again when he'd fallen in love with a 'gorgeous chestnut-haired rose' – who later became Neville's Great-grandmother Deirdre.

He found out that he was a real sucker for romance: it made him sigh in happiness and in sadness at the same time – because Ginny was increasingly distant and his own happy ending had all but gone up in smoke by now.

But hey, so what if he liked love stories? A guy is entitled to a secret vice, right? Not that he would admit to _his_ out loud… especially not in Ron's hearing range!

The rest of the group was less interested in what Draco had dubbed 'pointless tales' and more concerned with anything they could gleam about what was expecting them 'Elsewhere'.

Their blond host in particular was seemingly ensnared by the mentions of political workings that emerged from the pages and often threw himself in lengthy speculations relating to the way power would be achieved and used in the society and lands they were going to enter; while Hermione, true to form, was devouring even the smallest hint to the Art of Sealing with greediness and spent almost as much time trying to reconstruct its uses as she did perfecting The Ritual.

However, it was neither the history lesson nor the varied descriptions that had the greatest impact on their lives; rather it was a series of 'training notes' they found in the journal that came last in chronological order.

It had been written nearly twenty-five years after the Seal Master's arrival in this world and towards the end offered a most pleasant surprise: 'chakra-control' exercises.

Apparently, the man's daughter – Neville's maternal grandmother Rebecca – had shown no signs of accidental magic and thus had been believed to be a Squib by her mother's family (Neville had smiled sadly when they'd read that, all too able to relate).

The pricks had been quick to blame the 'foreigner' too, Harry read with a grimace, and to shun him as well as his family. The Seal Master hadn't been bothered by it, but the girl…

Unwilling to let his daughter face such scorn, Neville's great-granddad had decided to try and train her chakra instead. After all, if _he_ could fake being a wizard thanks to it, perhaps so could she. And if it didn't work… at least he could teach her how to make Seals, that would if nothing else make her life a little better.

As it turned out, the exercises not only allowed her to fake a few uses of magic through the moulding of chakra, but they also helped _a lot_ with focusing her own innate power, because while magic and chakra weren't the same thing, they reacted similarly to manipulation, so what worked to train one worked for the other as well.

Rather like the flow of water and an electric current: they were actually wildly different, but it was easily possible to explain electric circuitry in terms of plumbing, if pressure difference was used as an analogy for voltage and water to represent the mobile sea of charge within metals. Understanding one led to understanding the other.

Within a year, Rebecca had proved she wasn't a Squib, merely a very weak witch, barred from the higher level magic perhaps, yet still able to wield a wand if she concentrated on calling up enough magical energy.

She hadn't continued any wand-based classes beyond O.W.L. level, but she _had_ got that far and that, combined with a loudly proclaimed love for History research – which didn't require all that many spells – had been enough to ensure her acceptance in the world she was born in (and her chance of marrying into a good family later on).

Furthermore, much to father's and daughter's delight, 'research' on 'family History' worked well as a generally accepted cover for their secret lessons on Sealing – which was convenient as the man was well aware that the local Ministry would in all likelihood have censured the activity as 'dark', what with it being unusual.

Harry got the distinct feeling that the Seal Master didn't think much of their world. It was clear that the love for Deirdre was the only reason he remained in this society.

Unfortunately, chakra-control was the only goal the journal reported, much to the seven friends' disappointment. No further levels of training were mentioned.

In fact, the Seal Master wrote that one of his greatest regrets was that he was no 'shinobi' and had no practical knowledge of 'jutsu' to pass on to his daughter, whose training in his birth-world's techniques was fated to remain lacking.

It was a pity, because she'd shown greater aptitude at chakra-control than at anything connected with magic. And because the would-be dimension travellers would have loved to learn more.

Yet, though it was disappointing that no 'jutsu' description had been included in the journals, Harry and the others held hope that they could soon be taught, once in the new world.

And in the meanwhile, chakra-control exercises had brought delightful results on the 'magic' front: channelling magic the way 'shinobi' channelled chakra was slowly freeing them from wands.

* * *

It hadn't been an easy thing to accept.

When Neville and Harry had first read the part about how surprising results on the use of magic could be achieved through training in chakra-manipulation, the discussions and arguments it had set off had been _ferocious_.

Perhaps it was the forced confinement – a confinement that by then had already lasted _months_ – that gave the debate such fierceness… but be that as it may, the arguments had often barely skirted outright violence.

The most opposed to the possibility was, to Harry's great surprise, Luna, who rejected the idea completely. She would simply _not _believe that wands could be given up, which compared with her usual open-mindedness struck Harry as odd.

Draco for his part wasn't opposed so much as sceptical: he had grown up believing that wandless magic was _possible_, but also that it was too hard for common wizards and witches to control. He cited Dumbledore as an example, who had mastered a few wandless spells but only towards the end of his life and (presumably) through great effort: he hadn't been known for it when he defeated Grindelwald, nor immediately after.

Luna simply claimed Dumbledore had 'cheated', using the House-elves' help to make it _seem_ as if he could perform spells without a wand. She stubbornly insisted that the episode in her second-year, of hundreds of sleeping-bags appearing with just a wave of his hand, was evidence of this (he would have had to at least execute the proper movements for such a large conjuration to work).

Hermione wasn't sure one way or the other, but she repeatedly mentioned children and – predictably – House-elves and Goblins as known magic-users who didn't need wands.

The matter of children was in the end left hanging.

Draco, Ginny and Luna all argued that it was a well known truth that magic performed without the use of a wand was particularly volatile, and in fact Accidental Wandless Magic as performed by children was uncontrolled and unintentional.

The magic simply responded to the witch or wizard being upset or in danger, but the individuals had no control over the ability: all in all not very useful, as Draco commented.

Harry pointed out, however, that some children do exert a little control over their magic, even if they are untrained in proper spells. The young Tom Riddle of Dumbledore's memory came immediately to mind (_'I can hurt them if I want to…_').

But when Ron claimed 'little-You-Know-Who' was a freak and plain creepy to boot, Harry (quite offended by the choice of words) could also snidely bring up his own mother as he had seen her in Snape's Pensieve using magic to stop herself from falling as fast as normal and also to manipulate a flower.

He very nearly came to blows with his best friend when he asked the red-head if he thought Lily Evans was a 'freak' too.

A for magical creatures, Draco, always dismissive of non-humans, usually replied quite spitefully to any who mentioned them that the "wand bearers'" failure to share wand knowledge with goblins was a constant source of ill-feeling between the two species. Clearly, the Goblins knew wand-based magic was superior to any other kind.

Ron once added his two pennies worth by pointing out House-elves could apparate within Hogwarts grounds… and other warded places like, say, Malfoy Manor… which was awesome, whether 'the Ferret' admitted it or not.

That had resulted in two vicious spats overlapping, with Draco's enraged comebacks mingling with Luna's insistence that it wasn't Apparition, but 'popping', that it really was nothing special and that humans couldn't learn it anyway so she was right, wands were indispensable.

Hermione, never one to be left out of a discussion for long, at one point took to showing off by enumerating all of the different means non-British wizardfolks use as foci, such as jewellery, candles, amulets, staves and so on; that had prompted a round of reminiscences.

"Yeah, when I was in Northern Greece I saw these witches casting _aguamenti_ through this weird clear stone…"

"I remember, there was a warlock in Madagascar when I was looking for those _lychee nuts _thingies Neville wanted, who used an ivory sceptre for conjurations…"

"Venice was amazing, the magical community there is even more secretive than everywhere else and they all wear flowing robes and elaborate masks, and it's precisely those masks they use instead of wands… I've heard from the merchants there that they cast certain secret spells upon each newborn baby to give them a permanent mask, which will grow as the child grows…"

"Don't the old stories often mention weapons used as wands? Swords, mainly? There was that Romanian tale…"

"I saw this village where they performed magic by knotting and threading coloured ribbons…"

"I've heard rumours of feather magic in Central America…"

"Don't Dream Weavers in the north of Australia use shells to aid with their casting?"

In the end, even Luna reluctantly admitted that different foci could be used as effectively as wands, though she still maintained that a wand was 'the most perfected focus', both in terms of power regulation and of the range of uses it's suited to.

The acceptance of a variety of foci however didn't settle the debate on whether wandless magic was at all possible, nor gave answer to the doubts about a completely different form of energy being comparable to magic.

The 'hand-signs' that according to the Seal Master would help channelling chakra were a particularly sore spot.

Ginny claimed that sometimes, specific hand gestures can indeed be used to focus the power of the spell and guide it to the target. She'd seen her brother Charlie use this kind of wandless magic on flames a couple times, before… before. He'd used specific gestures to redirect the fires. Perhaps hand signs were the same for chakra-users: it wasn't outside the realm of imagination.

Draco though remained doubtful, offering the hypothesis that the dragon handler had more likely just been using conjured fire – which is already inclined to follow the caster's will, as Hermione promptly confirmed, much to Ginny's annoyance.

The ensuing fight, sparked by Ginny's nasty remarks upon a certain know-it-all butting in where she wasn't wanted, had escalated until it managed to dig up supposed wrongs dating back to the Quidditch World Cup, to the appalled amazement of their brothers and friends.

All in all, they could not find any true common ground on any issue.

* * *

Something good came of all that animosity, though.

Realizing how much being cooped up had to do with the violence of their spats, Harry persuaded, sweet-talked, coaxed, cajoled and when that failed, outright forced each and everyone of them to make full use of the grounds for physical training.

No small thanks to the completely awesome layout of Chateau Malfoy – Draco was insufferably smug at their impossible-to-hide admiration – they had more than enough space to do whatever physical activity they chose to.

Of course, the 'choosing to do some sport' part was at times a problem in itself…

Dragging Hermione to her daily run around the grounds of the Chateau, for instance, was a fight each and every time, but Harry figured it killed two birds with one stone, since the others found it hilarious and would follow him on said run just to watch them bicker.

Still, it prompted him to randomly apparate to a muggle town and sign up for judo lessons hoping it would make it easier to subdue her in the mornings; an endeavour in which he was soon joined by Ron and then even Luna, who wanted to learn some self-defence.

It lasted until the moment when they spotted two French Aurors asking questions at the dojo's entrance, at which point they 'mysteriously disappeared' (and never dared to leave the wards' perimeter again).

The few weeks were enough, anyway, to earn Harry the nickname 'Sharp Wind' from their sensei, because of the instinctual way he used fast, darting stabs against his opponents and tended to move all the time, never giving them the chance to strike back.

Instincts born of years of Harry Hunting, he thought ruefully. Still, at least the nickname wasn't anything to do with lightning bolts. He supposed he could live with Ron jokingly calling him Sharpy… if he _had _to. And until he managed to come up with something equally idiotic to dub his beloved best friend with.

Despite having to give up the lessons, all three of them kept working-out, just like Ginny continued to train with her throwing daggers.

Hermione and Neville contented themselves with runs, while Draco, to everybody's surprise, diligently practiced fencing, and was quite good at it. When they asked, he arrogantly sneered at them and haughtily proclaimed that all aristocrats knew how to handle a sword. He condescended to teach an eager Luna, though, even if he was rather obnoxious about it, and Harry more often than not tagged along, cheerfully ignoring Draco's disdainful grumblings.

And of course, after a spat between Ron and Draco about their respective favourite teams prompted Hermione to incautiously express relief at 'finally leaving bloody Quidditch behind', the two horror-struck quarrellers had swiftly forgotten their argument in favour of grabbing Harry and Ginny from their own pursuits and dragging them into an impromptu Quidditch match. Something that soon became a daily habit, to the delight of Luna who happily commented from the ground.

After all, it was their last chance!

The constant physical exhaustion coupled with the games restricting their competitiveness to the field did wonders to reduce the strain of being confined together: soon they were all much more relaxed and better disposed towards each other.

* * *

Thus they eventually all agreed to give chakra-control a try, and to explore the possibility of performing magic without a wand.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, results varied a lot.

Hermione being Hermione, she had as first thing compiled a list of everything they knew about 'different forms of magic'.

It resulted in the somewhat obvious realization that as a rule, the casting of spells, in whatever tradition, requires the magical to do, say or use something in order for the spell to work. The difference is that spells may require a verbal (the incantation or formula), somatic (the wand movements, hand-signs or even dance patterns), or material (potions ingredients for instance) component as well as a magical focus.

They ended up more or less agreeing that the 'hand-signs' of chakra-users were simply the equivalent of wand movements; through peculiar positions of their hands, or perhaps their fingers, 'shinobi' directed their energy towards a certain goal.

Unfortunately, they had no way of knowing what those positions were, and they were not about to experiment with 'the equivalent of careless random wand movements', as Draco put it.

They could, on the other hand, experiment with foci to their heart's content; foci that, they soon discovered, could be just about anything: they didn't even need to be or contain a magical substance.

In other words, the 'trick' to 'wandless' magic was that it simply used a different focus, oftentimes much less noticeable than a wand.

In time, each of them sussed out their 'preferred' means of channelling their energy.

Ginny for instance found her blades pretty effective and started incorporating hexes and curses cast through her knives in her throwing routines. The pitiful state of her targets after she was through with them quickly taught her friends that she was not to be angered without _very _good reason.

In fact, she soon became so quick with channelling through her precious daggers that she could let a barrage of mixed curses fly at the drop of a hat, hurtling them so fast her hands were a blur. Her lethal precision even with supposedly wide ranged curses, not to mention the power she could pack into her infamous bat-bogey-hex, made everyone else ever so slightly wary around her.

Luna, despite being still rather reluctant about the whole matter, tried a few options and ended up using a ribbon of all things: just a piece of blue cloth she kept tied into her hair when she wasn't channelling through it.

Harry was the most discontinuous, changing focus every other day, and after a while, having grown tired of continually losing his focus or forgetting where he put it, started using pretty much anything he could get his hands on at a moment's notice, thus discovering that it didn't even matter if the item was used consistently.

Harry figured the whole point was the method, the 'sequence' of breath and thoughts, so to speak, to call up the power and feel it dance at your fingertips, whether or not the wand – or whatever focus – was there to receive it and redirect it.

Of course, that wasn't entirely true – Ginny and Luna got better results from their preferred focus, and Draco seemed to have an oddly hard time with just about anything, only managing to channel – _sometimes_ – through an uncut moonstone gem of his mother's he kept around his neck like a sort of medallion (although Hermione was convinced Draco's problem was purely a psychological block).

From getting used to their new foci, anyway, it had been a relatively easy step moving on to using their body parts as focus – an idea that started with Hermione wondering if a ring or even nail rhinestones would suffice, Luna jokingly trying channelling through a nail outright, and surprisingly, Ron being the first to channel a _flagrate _successfully through a _punch_.

To Draco's nose but still, Harry admitted the red-head had been provoked, _that time_, and it was a great breakthrough anyway, worthy of a celebration, no matter how offended the currently singed blond was at being declared 'a martyr of research'.

They also discovered that Harry could channel indifferently magic and what they were reasonably sure was chakra – especially after Hermione had dug up some Chinese philosophy texts that sort of integrated the few information they got from the journals.

So could Ron and Ginny, while the others had more trouble, with Draco apparently being unable to call chakra up at all.

On the other hand, the three of them got very… varied results when they tried to do more than just call it up (the pink flamingo incident would remain forever etched in their memories), while Luna and Hermione, though finding it hard to call up the power at first, could then use it easily and with perfect control.

Further experiments yielded somewhat confusing results.

Hermione could do any spell of any kind, up to the standard third year Hogwarts curriculum – but nothing above that. She could for instance turn a tortoise into a teapot with seemingly naught but a thought, but much to her frustration, a summoning charm was beyond her skills.

Luna could do any Charm, including the Patronus, and nothing else – she couldn't even turn a matchstick into a proper needle.

Ginny wasn't interested in anything but hexes and Draco had too much troubles doing anything at all to worry about _what_ result he got.

Ron had adopted a bipolar attitude, spending days on end stubbornly working on a curse, only to give up entirely after mastering it and go weeks without lifting a finger, until someone – usually Luna – got him to buckle down again: so the inconsistencies in his outcomes were more likely due to laziness than anything else.

Neville was fighting against the double obstacle of the new method and his own, self-imposed silence, but the only one to protest about his slow pace had been Ginny. She'd ranted to Harry a good deal about how Neville was going to get himself killed if he kept this 'silent stoicism farce' up and had taken to sneer down at him at meals.

Harry had merely reassured Neville that he needn't worry, as someone would always be there to cover his back anyway, and he had every right to go at his own pace.

Then he'd dragged a scowling Hermione away from her own obsessive research and forced her to provide a basic overview of Mediwizardry for Neville. A Healer, even just a beginner, would be an immense advantage to their team and above all, would stay mostly out of any battle, where the slow pace of casting would mean higher danger rather than higher precision.

Neville hadn't looked particularly pleased, but had nodded in acceptance and learned all of the first-aid and field healing before going back to study Defence.

Harry was the most erratic.

Some spells came out perfectly and as easy as breathing – _lumos _and _accio_ for instance. He could literally summon anything to him with a mere thought.

Other turned out even more powerful than with his wand – most notably the Patronus, whose radiance when he cast it through his left palm was truly blinding. As for the Disarming Charm he was notoriously so fond of, it was starting to resemble a mix between a blasting hex and a stunning charm (Ron had needed quite some time to recover after he volunteered as guinea-pig).

Then again, there were spells that when released were weakened and faltering: his impedimenta jinx could hardly make a conjured rabbit stumble these days and his latest attempt at a colour changing charm had barely watered down the red into pale pink rather than making it blue as he'd intended.

More worrisome still, some casting had had… unexpected results – for instance, attempting to transfigure his goblet into a knife had produced a lemon-yellow glowing cockroach instead. Draco was probably never going to let him live it down.

Nobody could truly figure out why he got such various outcomes… though Ginny rather meanly suggested that he could only do the spells he had a liking for – and Harry, while a bit hurt at her tone, was inclined to agree.

Make no mistakes, wands were still better. There were no two opinions on this amongst them. Wands were more convenient, easier to use, definitely more powerful, ultimately more eclectic.

All around, superior.

Yet as Harry never grew tired of saying, relying on their wands was good, but _not being dependent_ on them was much, much better.

* * *

Not everything turned out as well as the wandless magic business, however.

One day a very rumpled and disgruntled Hermione barged in at breakfast, parchments flying around her as she tried to keep them stacked and consult them at the same time.

"Bad news", she declared, "very bad. No way around it though. I've tried everything. Twice. There's no way that I can see to fix this. I thought I could if I changed the respective size of the hexagonal arrays, but no, it didn't work, and using heptagons nearly made the whole thing collapse, and of course…"

Harry, who was in a particularly good mood after a night of unusually pleasant dreams, got up and around the large table to where she was pacing and muttering.

He grabbed her lightly around the waist and dropped a light kiss on top of her head, derailing her monologue. Once she was quiet and looking at him puzzled, he chuckled and told her: "Hello to you too, Sis. Why don't you start over? Whatever the problem is, it would probably be easier to understand if you actually told us…"

"Well, the point is I can't fix this, Harry. The rate of material transfer is hard enough to keep under control because of all the living matter. No, I simply can't manage to extend it through any of the wave fields, I'm afraid. It's skin contact or nothing", answered Hermione shaking her head dejectedly.

Harry blinked, then bit his lip to stop a smile from forming. "Well, thank you, Sis. That was delightfully obscure. I would have hated for you to actually _clarify_ things. I mean, what would be the fun in that?"

Luna burst out laughing so loud that even the barely-awake Ron had to take notice.

Hermione blushed and scowled at the same time, which only set Luna off again. Then she turned ostentatiously to Harry, disdainfully giving her back to the table, and tried once more to explain: "I can find no way to bring anything much with us."

This didn't do a lot to shed light on the problem, actually, and Harry could only stare at her, completely baffled.

"What do you mean, we can't bring anything with us?"

"Well, of course things like, say, the clothes we're wearing will travel to the new dimension with us, naturally, but imagine we tried to take a chest or trunk along… it wouldn't follow us. I can't work it into the Ritual's structure. I can only guarantee that something will be taken 'Elsewhere' if that something is in contact with one of us travellers' skin!" She looked downtrodden.

There was a pregnant silence as they worked out the implication that they would end up stranded on a brand new world with nothing but the clothes on their back.

Then Harry was struck by a brilliant idea. "Hey, what about that space-enlarging spell? Couldn't we cast it on our clothes' pockets? You know what I'm talking about… the one you used on your beaded handbag during The Last Year."

In Ron's speak, which they all seemed to adopt sooner or later, The Last Year meant the months on the run before the war was over.

Ron did like his capital letters.

Hermione shot him a dirty look. "The Undetectable Extension Charm? Don't be an idiot."

Harry frowned. He thought it was a valid question: wouldn't the spell solve all of their problems?

But his sister was becoming increasingly rude, probably a consequence of stress.

Ron was frowning too. "Well why not? It was mighty useful during The Last Year! I remember that fragile-looking thing, it was, like, this big" he motioned the size in mid-air "and you fit an awful lot of heavy stuff there…"

Draco sneered, his frustration almost palpable and therefore spoiling for a fight with his usual target. "Don't you know anything at all about _anything _beyond food and brooms, Weasel? Salazar, you're so stupid that you can't get from A to B without going through the rest of the alphabet!"

Ron went red – predictably – and got threateningly halfway up from his chair, fists already forming; Harry took a couple steps towards the table, ready to stop them if they came to blows, all the while wondering where Draco came up with that kind of stuff half the time… probably all the practice with Crabbe and Goyle...

Neville cleared his throat, attracting attention and halting the disaster in the making.

He very deliberately interwove the fingers of his two hands, then grimaced as if in pain and mimicked a small explosion.

Harry stared blankly. What…?

Luna intervened serenely. "Neville's right." Well, at least _someone_ understood, thought Harry…

The blonde girl explained calmly: "The general wizard-space expansion, that causes objects to hold more than their outer dimensions would seem to allow, is fairly common but also fairly limited… things like trunks and cauldrons can be spelled so, things which are already containers, so to say, but the final size is limited by a multiplying factor which depends on the strength of the caster and anyway, the maximum range is ten times the standard space, tops; besides, the more you enlarge the space, the less you can modify its other qualities, such as weight – you can't put a feather-light spell on an enlarged trunk for instance…"

Harry frowned confused, he'd always believed cauldrons were spelled lighter. And what about Moody's trunk? Surely that didn't weight like a _whole room_?

"Magical space pockets like tents or multi-compartments trunks are completely different…" Luna continued. _Ah._

"They are in fact more closely related to the Extension Charm Hermione mentioned… they extend the internal dimensions of the target object without affecting the external dimensions at all. Or, indeed, its weight."

"So they would solve the problem, right?" asked Ron stubbornly.

Luna shook her head. "The fact is that we are trying to manipulate the space-time continuum… whatever effect we place on our belonging is likely to interact with the Ritual… more than likely in unforeseen ways we have no way to predict or prepare for…"

Neville repeated his miming the explosion and this time everyone got the point.

"So, no 16 rooms apartment with Jacuzzi in the stone of an earring, then?" asked Harry jokingly.

"I'm afraid not", smiled Luna, while Hermione slumped dejectedly on a chair.

The main consequence of this conversation was that suddenly, wand holsters shaped so that they kept the wand adherent to the skin flourished on every forearm. Wandless magic at their fingertips or not, no one wanted to give up their precious wands.

Then, the closer they got to the conclusion of preparations, the more they pestered Hermione about _what_ exactly they could and couldn't bring.

She steadfastly maintained that bags and the like were out of the question. In fact, she kept coming at them whenever they mentioned 'packing' even in passing, repeating time and again that luggage was not to be even taken into consideration. She insisted they could bring _nothing_ along, unless it was in full contact with their skin.

Ron, whether cranky because the girl of his dreams didn't give him the time of day anymore or just plain tired of her constant nagging, eventually told her bluntly that she was being ridiculous.

"You said any clothes we're wearing will come with us! I hardly think if we've got a cloak on, that every inch of it will touch our skin! Or what, should we only wear form fitting clothes?"

Hermione bit her tongue worriedly, apparently the problem hadn't occurred to her yet.

Luna however soothed her worries: "Magic is mostly about concepts, and concepts are shaped with words. If you were wearing 'a piece of cloth' or 'some fabric' then indeed only the part of it actually in contact with your skin would travel along. But a 'cloak' is a whole… and as a whole it will go with the one who's wearing it… similarly, a 'book' is more than just some pages between a cover…"

"So we could actually bring a book with us, if we kept it close to our body?" asked Ginny with sudden interest.

"I believe so", nodded Luna.

"I'm not so sure", replied Draco pessimistically. "There is a chance that only part of the book would make it through… I remember Vector harping us about the importance of including respective size and weight parameters when integrating the influence field of a ritualistic focus…"

Hermione, who'd taken the same Arithmancy class, nodded pensively: "I think we fall under Katyayana's limit for polifocusing though… we should be able to calculate the maximum allowable size through a simple linear interpolation of Alhazen's reciprocal influence rate…"

"Translation?" asked Harry a bit annoyed.

Ginny said briskly: "There will be a maximum weight, size and number of pages, under which the book will be ok for transport". She sounded rather satisfied and Harry blinked in surprise.

She promptly sneered. "What? I got an O on my Arithmancy O.W.L., you know!"

Harry sighed. He hadn't meant to offend her, he was just curious about why she was suddenly taking interest. But these days he didn't even have to try, to set her off…

However odd, Ginny's interest was serious, so much so that she devised a strap which would sustain a reasonably sized volume against her body, making it adhere to her belly. She didn't let anyone see clearly the little half-burned tome she went to such length for, but it was obvious she was really attached to it.

As for the others, only Harry and Neville imitated her, Ron claiming they were barmy wanting to bring books at all, and the other three being unable to choose only one.

Neville copied all of his great-grandfather's journals in one, reducing the character size in order to make it fit the requirements Draco calculated, and even Hermione admitted it was a smart idea.

Harry for his part 'borrowed' _Animalis Anima_ by Anacleto Gigio (actually Draco told him to keep it outright).

He knew he might never be able to become an Animagus, but in the back of his mind he felt that bringing the book along was like keeping a connection open with his father, Sirius and Remus. After all, his mum was always with him, thanks to her blood protection and the eyes he had inherited from her, but he didn't feel like unmanageable hair were a good enough link to the Potter side of his origins. If he became an Animagus, though, continuing the Marauders' tradition…

At any rate, he was taking the book with him.

* * *

Despite a few disappointments along the way, the atmosphere in the Chateau was permeated with optimistic contentment.

It was as if the air itself was charged with hope and the closer they came to 'Leaving Day', the more the tension seemed to be drowned in merry anticipation.

Of course, with seven wildly different youths trapped in a house – no matter how lavishly grandiose - for months on end, there were a lot of tense moments, even after they took to working out their frustrations in sports…

The time Draco had botched up an array of runes and nearly blown himself and Luna up…

The time Hermione had bit Harry's head off for daring to disturb her during an experiment and he'd been stressed enough to snap back and they hadn't talked for two weeks, until Neville of all people got fed up with them and locked them in a room so they would have to make up…

The screaming row that sent Hermione and Luna to frantically research healing spells so they could reverse whatever Ginny had done to Ron…

The times Ron's morose and rather depressed mood (usually after a quarrel with Hermione) had proved a dampener to anybody's enthusiasm...

The times Draco had reverted to his younger days' I'm-King-Of-The-Universe attitude and gotten on everyone's nerves…

The mess of feelings their ever-changing relationships with one another kept creating, forcing them to confront issues or redefine perceptions far too often for comfort…

And a few 'outside threats', namely the various attempts of the British Ministry to get its hands on them again.

Thankfully scrying attempts, booby-trapped portkey letters and assorted threats were easily ignored, courtesy of the Malfoys' impressive set of wards.

The closer anyone came to actually inconvenience them was when the British Ministry managed to convince its French counterpart that Draco Malfoy, convicted criminal whose sentence included confinement to British soil, should be extradited and that the 'dangerous youths' helping him hide were 'dark sympathizers' that needed to be 'dealt with promptly'.

Judging from the newspaper _Le__ Monde__ de la__ Magie_ that Draco continued to have delivered regularly, it had taken them nearly four months to locate them, despite the fact that the Malfoy properties were registered at the Inventory in Paris.

When Ministry representatives escorted by an Auror contingent had shown up at the Chateau's gates, Hermione had bitingly blamed Harry and his 'idiotic excursions to muggle gyms', claiming the French had only got this far because he'd made it easy to find them. She'd gone on and on, shrilly bemoaning the end of their 'peace and quiet'.

Meanwhile, Draco had merely shrugged unconcernedly, and raised another level of the wards.

As he told Harry and Luna, he wasn't about to be _bothered_ by a _Ministry_ of all things, much less a _French_ one!

Through all of it, though, it seemed as an undercurrent of joyous confidence remained in each of them, even during the most stressed times. As if they were all just 'holding on' until something new, something better came their way.

No one doubted that everything would go well 'Elsewhere', not even Ginny who'd been so sceptical at first.

It was a symphony of hope that had very few discordant notes.

* * *

One of such jarring notes was Luna, whom Harry couldn't help but think was acting rather strange of late.

Hermione had snorted when he'd mentioned his worry. "Right. Because she was never weird, was she?"

"Not Luna-strange", he'd tried to explain, "that's just… charmingly odd. No, this strange is more like… normal-strange, you know? That's why it has me worried and… did that even make sense outside my head?"

"No", had flat out told him Hermione.

He'd sighed and left it at that, but the fact remained that he'd caught his blonde sister staring funnily at perfectly normal things, like him and Ron playing chess or Ron and Ginny quarrelling, and it bothered him.

Plus she was often short with Hermione – and Luna was never short!

Not that Hermione noticed, his sister was increasingly obsessed with the Ritual as time went by, much to Ron's desperation; the red-head was getting more and glummer as he failed to regain her attention.

And if Harry was to listen to Draco's rants Luna was spending 'far too much time with that Weas…'-with Ron. Mind you, this was probably just Draco's 'Malfoy genes' bitching about the nearest Weasley. Merlin knew Ron himself had a lot of complaints about 'the blond Ferret' – Harry had stopped listening ages ago, but knew only half of them were warranted, if that many.

Anyway, Luna's behaviour was puzzling… all in all confusing… and probably best left alone at that, he admitted ruefully.

At least he'd managed to get her to admit why she was so opposed to 'demeaning' wands: an answer that had thrown him for a loop.

Never in a million years would he have guessed that Luna _believed_ in the legend of the Elder Wand – not in the sense of accepting it as true, but of having actual _faith_ in its power.

Then he remembered that her father had proclaimed himself a 'believer on the Quest'. Perhaps it wasn't so odd that Luna rejected a contradiction to her childhood conviction… though Harry couldn't help but finding it strange anyway.

It made him uncomfortable, too. He hadn't given much thought to the Deathly Hallows and what would happen to them once he left.

The Stone was lost and the Wand hidden and he intended to leave it at that. Vaguely, he hoped that his departure from this world would be 'registered' as 'death' – so that the Death Stick's power would be broken, the previous master having never been defeated. An end to the whole mess, just like he'd promised Dumbledore's portrait.

The Cloak… he wasn't sure. Half of him wanted to bury it somewhere and forget it, the other half didn't want to let go of it.

Somewhere deep down, though, he felt uneasy at the idea of taking the Third Hallow away from this world.

He could have used some advice, but there was no-one he trusted with this. Ron was still at times grumbling about his giving up the Elder Wand…

No, no-one would understand.

In the end, he made a snap decision of sending the Cloak to Teddy, inside a package charmed so that the boy alone would be able to open it, and not before his eleventh birthday (Ginny had looked at him oddly when he asked her help, but settled the delaying security charm to his specifications nonetheless).

He added the Marauder's Map to the package, along with a long letter explaining what had happened, why he hadn't been a part of his life, their decision to 'try a new start Elsewhere' (though with no details) and what the Cloak and Map were as well as their origin; he ended the letter telling his Godson that he loved him and would love him even from another universe entirely.

There was nothing else he could do for the baby he would have given anything to raise as he own; and it gave him closure like nothing else could have.

He didn't tell anyone of this spur-of-the-moment idea. He did, however, tell Luna in no uncertain terms that the Elder Wand wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Luna hadn't believed him, but in the end she'd just shrugged and let the matter drop.

He'd found no further clues about her odd behaviour, but he too had given up investigating after a while. Besides it was probably none of his business. Especially since there was more than enough to do without looking for things that probably weren't even there!

* * *

Another source of concern was the subtle, mostly ignored but persistently nagging suspicion that they would get themselves into huge troubles 'Elsewhere'.

None of them wanted to be anything less but perfectly able to take care of themselves. Already by their world's standards they would be considered formidable, what with their war experience and the way they almost without noticing taught each other a great part of what they were proficient in.

Harry, too, refused to even consider being weak and dependant once there – he wanted to protect his friends, to be able to keep them safe on his own if necessary. He knew the others felt the same, some more some less.

They were all training hard to be able to face what the journals talked about – a society militarized in the extreme.

Yet Harry knew – perhaps better than the others - that they wouldn't be able to match or even come close to the level of someone who had trained all their life.

Sure they had magic to fall back on. That was a huge advantage, especially now that they were overcoming the limitation of wands.

But he was worried that that would only make them targets rather than protect them, since it would label them as 'potential threats'.

There was nothing he could do, however, except step up his training and… be ready, psychologically, to fight for his friends if and when he was called to.

Draco couldn't understand why he felt this last goal might be a problem.

"Potter, you bloody jerk. You've been fighting to protect others all your sodding heroic life! You fucking took down a _Dark Lord_! Now you're worried about… what, exactly? Not being able to kill?"

Harry had had to fight down the urge to break Malfoy's nose at the light – _too light_ – tone of his question.

Yes, he was bloody well worried at the idea of taking a life!

"You're pathetic", had sneered the blond. "You've been at war and _still_ you think killing is wrong? Really, Potter, wake up! Someone comes at you and yours, you strike back, that's how things go! There are situation when it's the right thing to do…"

Harry had kept silent, knowing that if he replied just then, there was a good chance to end up on a certain Astronomy Tower, metaphorically speaking. He had a hard time not smashing Draco's face in the ugly truth that fateful night should have brought home to the Slytherin.

Killing wasn't easy. Killing wasn't good – not even when it put down a rabid psychopath like dearest Bellatrix. Killing wasn't just – not even when it was justifiable.

Then again, Draco had grown up in a home where it was likely that talks of murder took place both frequently and thoughtlessly, enough that he would not consider it a grave thing. And at the same time, Harry doubted the other had ever actually killed – certainly he couldn't have felt someone's flesh burn under his very hand, or watched a man struggle for breath while being strangled in his arms.

He supposed that was the reason Draco could talk about murder with the blasé attitude that more often than not had Harry wanting to punch the blond in the gut. Repeatedly.

Malfoy hadn't been able to bring himself to do it, not even when his own life and the lives of his parents depended on it. So where did he get off talking of killing without a care?

Harry _had_ killed. It might always have been self-defence, but he remembered the first time… he remembered the moment when he had _decided_, at eleven years of age, to hold onto Quirrel's head _because his hands were burning his enemy_.

It had taken him years to realize the enormity of that decision. When he'd been confronted with the stark reality of the Prophecy, though, when he'd faced the horrible kill-or-be-killed choice for the first time, without even the emotional charge of a fight to buffer it... he'd remembered, and understood.

He'd realized then that people can spar all they want, be excellent combatants, but when it comes to actually _hurting_ someone else, most will instinctively hold back. You needed an extra edge of determination to make your hits count. It could be trained in you – look at soldiers – or it could be innate, but without it the line between sparring and actual fighting would not be crossed.

Killing required that extra determination to be taken over the edge. And even when you weren't really _directly_ responsible (he thought of Pettigrew, of Dumbledore) it still broke something inside you. No wonder those horrid Horcruxes needed a murder.

Harry knew - had known since then - that he had that kind of determination. He hoped with all of himself never to be in a condition to need it again, but if it came to it, he _could_ and _would_ hurt and even kill.

He wasn't sure any of the others had it in them. He prayed they would never have to find out.

* * *

On the other hand, Draco's upbringing turned out to be pretty useful when he devoted two full weeks to teaching them the Slytherin Code of Conduct, so that they would all be able to sustain their cover story, no matter what it might end up being.

"Rule One", he started coolly, unconsciously taking on a demeanour that had all the former Gryffindors cringing, so much it reminded them of Snape. "Do not offer any information. The best lie is one that isn't said."

"But what if we're asked something?" interrupted Ron.

"Most people won't ask ..." said Draco dismissively.

"But what if they _do_?" insisted the red-head and got a glare for his trouble.

"Well they could!" shot Ginny coming to her brother's aid. "They might be genuinely curious, or they might be specifically after information, what if they are official interrogators? What if they're just plain nosy and insist on being told?"

Draco gritted his teeth. "_As I was saying_", he hissed, "most people won't ask but if they do, you have two options. One is outright telling them you don't feel like talking or something along those lines. It is rather risky though. They might not back down, or they might become suspicious."

He started pacing. "A better option is practicing answering a question with a question. That is usually very effective."

"Is it?" asked Hermione doubtfully.

"Yes. People feel obligated to provide an answer of sorts whenever they are asked a question. It's something that we're taught as normal, after all, and as polite. Ninety percent of questioners are easily distracted by a question fired at them in turn, as they will feel obliged to answer it and oftentimes will barely notice or forget entirely that you haven't provided an answer to _theirs _yet."

Harry privately thought the blond wasn't far off the mark. Hadn't he himself used this tactic a few times, like against Scrimgeour, for example?

Ron though wasn't that easily convinced. "Right. Ninety percent. Sure… And what about the other ten percent?"

"It is made up of those too smart, too well trained or too plain stubborn to fall for it", replied Draco shortly. "But even with them, it will buy you a little time, as you will have unsettled them, however slightly, and they will have to rework the conversation to go back to the question they want answered…"

"In other words", mused Ginny, "even if you can't avoid the line of questioning, you're still taking control of the conversation out of their hands."

"Precisely", approved Draco.

"Plus, you'll be giving yourself time to come up with something coherent", added Harry, who knew all too well how important a few seconds to gather you thoughts might be in dire situations.

"Correct again", concluded Draco. "Moving on… Rule Two. Do not correct people."

They looked at him uncomprehendingly.

He chuckled. "People will look at you and make assumptions based on what they already know, on what they have had experience of, on what they are familiar with or have heard of."

He pondered for a moment. "Imagine finding yourself walking down a Hogwarts corridor. A boy you've never seen before, perhaps slightly older than you are, wearing a school uniform in the colours of a different House than yours, passes you by. What can you tell me of that boy?"

Hermione promptly answered: "He's a student of whatever House his colour show, probably going to his class."

Draco pierced her with his gaze: "Are you sure? Even if you've never seen him before?"

"Well he's in another House, isn't he? It's quite likely that we never noticed him before!" exclaimed Ginny.

"What if I told you that boy has actually already graduated and is infiltrating the school to set up a prank?"

"That's ridiculous", scoffed Hermione.

"Not really", said Harry reluctantly. "No-one would pay too much attention to a student going his way. You'd just assume he's not in your usual classes and such and dismiss his presence as normal, therefore inconsequential. The Twins did plan out to do something like this, if I remember correctly, but feared their red hair would give them up…"

Ron and Ginny nodded.

"And my point is proven", smirked Draco. "Assumptions always work to the benefit of the deceiver. So… don't correct them."

Harry thought back at two innocuous-looking little girls who kept dropping things whenever he was around, and silently agreed wholeheartedly.

"Rule Three. Know and understand who you're trying to fool. This is extremely important because, well… if you know what you're doing you will always wear the mask they make."

This time, defining the listeners 'puzzled' would have been an understatement.

Draco chuckled again and hummed in thought. "Okay. Let's try like this", he said, hoping the simile would help impart the complicated idea. "It's like when children play make believe, I suppose you have all played that before?"

They nodded.

"Perfect. As you know, children often imitate the lives of the adults around them – they play 'Mum' and 'Dad', for instance, or 'Shop-assistant' and 'Customer', or 'Healer' and 'Patient'…"

"They play parts they think are the 'right' ones", said Ginny in understanding.

"Exactly, now the key is to discover what other people want you to be and to be that thing, at least in appearances."

Silence met his words.

"Trust me, okay; just listen. The prankster we mentioned earlier: would he have gone unnoticed if he hadn't been wearing his old uniform?"

This time, Hermione got the point straightaway. "He could go around without attracting attention because everybody was expecting a student, and he played the part of a student."

"Good", nodded Draco.

Harry mused: "So the trick is to guess what the others will find the most normal and unremarkable, and choose to play that part."

"Exactly."

Everyone was quiet for a moment, and then Draco spoke. "Rule Four. Keep it simple. The key to a good mask is that it hides those things you wish to keep secret, at most allowing only a few people to know or guess, but it doesn't change everything about you. After all, you need to be comfortable in it, otherwise you'll give up the game immediately."

This, everybody understood.

Ron summed it up: "So… don't act all that different than how we act now, just keep a few things under wraps."

Draco smiled tightly. "Finally, Rule Five. Don't brag nor put yourselves on display. Try to avoid attracting attention if at all possible. Remember that no one else _needs_ to know what you can or can't do. And that at times, letting others see you as powerless is a huge advantage."

His smile became a bit uncertain and his voice lowered. "As Professor Snape used to say, fire, fear and pride are the best servants and the worst masters. Use pride as part of your mask if you want, but don't let it get in the way of the image you want to portray."

He looked almost embarrassed and Harry teased him: "Not an easy task, eh, Malfoy?"

The blond blushed a bit. "Whatever. Now get to it, you lazybones. Salazar knows you will need a _lot_ of practice, you useless Gryffindorks…"

As he let Ron's yelling wash over him, Harry thought that the blond was still a total git, but his advice was likely to prove invaluable in their new lives.

* * *

Eventually, Hermione deemed the Ritual complete, with vouching from both Draco and Luna, and thus proceeded to explain to the gathered group what last-minute preparations were needed and what role each of them would have to perform.

"The structure of The Ritual, its framework, is rendered explicit in the carved Circle and the symbols that complete it, defining the necessary patterns", she started motioning vaguely to the huge, circular shape filled with crisscrossing lines that had been patiently etched on the wooden floor of the ballroom they were standing in.

"The Pythagorean principles of mystical geometry sustain it, make it receptive to the flows of magic and provide a solid base to the energies we will channel through it, as well as shaping the basic level of magic without contingent input, thus freeing us from the burden of keeping our focus on the whole Ritual at all times".

They all nodded, either in understanding or in order to avoid a long-winded explanation that would be beyond them anyway.

"The Runic arrays we added are arranged according to our arithmantic calculations", Hermione went on, gesturing vaguely to Draco and Ginny, who were nodding sharply.

"Runes are sort of like the incantations of Rituals, they give direction and meaning to the power we will call up, basically they are the instructions on how it should work. The intertwining hexagons they form" – here everybody turned their attention to the floor, trying to see what she was talking about – "mark our places, physically and magically both; they represent the instruction on how to include us – the performers and the targets at once – in the Ritual. Without them, we wouldn't leave this dimension at all, or possibly die in the attempt."

"Why are they traced in chalk, then?" asked Harry worriedly. "Isn't there a chance we'll mess them up, stepping on them for instance?"

"It's not actually chalk", pointed out Luna dreamily. "It's those wax amulets you bought in Bolivia, melted using a fire sprinkled with three kinds of crushed iris root so they wouldn't lose their magical charge and mixed with the powdered herbs Ron brought back from Africa and the grounded Asian Belladonna seeds Neville managed to procure. We used almond oil to amalgamate it all, then mixed and moulded it in small cylinders and let it dry in the open for a couple days." She paused. "But it does work like chalk, yes", she concluded with a small sigh.

"As for messing it up, Potter", intervened Draco in clipped tones: "don't."

Harry automatically nodded.

Beside him, Ron muttered something along the lines of 'Why all the bother to get chalk anyway in the end?'

Unfortunately, Hermione's sharp ears caught it and as usual these days, she exploded: "Ronald Weasley, if years of magical education have taught you nothing about the importance of proper materials then at least keep your bloody mouth shut! I can't believe you would say something so stupid…"

She was gearing up for a rant and Harry winced, feeling Ron tense beside him and knowing his best friend was hurt by her ungracious remarks.

Before he could interrupt however, Ginny did. "Runes for Living and Runes for Non-living are widely different, Ron", she clarified calmly. "Mixing up the two sets would have complicated the Ritual beyond our skill. So we decided to stick with the Living set, as we needed to be included ourselves, and because of that we can only use things that are either living or originated from living things. That's why we're using this wooden floor instead of marble or stone or even the ground outside. Wax and herbs are ok, chalk isn't, because it's mineral, so we had to work out something with the same qualities and no non-living origin. And _you!_"

She suddenly rounded on Hermione, her calm tone giving way to fury, "how _dare_ you mock him for not understanding, he never studied Runes and need I remind you how long it took _you_ to figure out chalk would mess up the magical flows?"

Hermione harrumphed, diverting her eyes, then snapped: "Back to the Ritual."

She took a breath, then: "We will have to exploit the lucky fact that there are seven of us to the maximum. Seven is a powerful magical number."

Harry grimaced, reminded of a cruel dark-haired boy in Slughorn's office, so many years ago.

"Magic-wise, Seven is first and foremost Four and Three", went on Hermione undeterred. "Four, in everything but especially in rituals, brings stability and strengthens the grounding effect of all things. We'll use that. We'll need to invoke the usual associations of Four: four seasons, four directions, four elements. This should grant the Ritual the qualities of solidity, persistence and endurance, reinforcing the structure that the Circle describes and stabilizing its grounding effect by 'anchoring' it in the four positions I have marked"; she gestured again to the drawing on the floor.

Neville made an interrogative motion.

"Ron will take the north position", she answered, "and later will invoke the earth element. Luna will call up air in the south. Ginny is fire and will stand in the west. Draco, in the east, will complete the set with water. The order of invocation needs to be north, south, east, west for the best balance: alternating wizard and witch and starting and ending with the blood-kin."

"That's not the usual match-up of directions and elements", frowned Draco. "Normally north is associated with spring and water, south with autumn and earth, east with winter and air and west with summer and fire. Are you sure we should deviate from tradition? And what about seasons?"

"It will work", said Luna serenely. "We ran it through all of the patterns Lo Shu suggests for the Vedic squares. You know that unlike Western arithmancers, Indian warlocks have always included the personal numbers (psychic, destiny and name) in all equations. Trusting their experience allows us to take into account the emotional components brought by each participants and factor characters, preferences and affinities in the line-up. And we can still use the normal seasons-directions associations as they have a very minor role in our Ritual anyway."

"I was right", muttered Harry to Ron, "Arithmancy is scary."

Hermione scowled. "As long as you do what I say, I don't care if you understand it! Or like it!"

Harry scowled, irritated, but nodded.

"Fine. Now…" she gathered her thought a moment. "Setting the Four like this leaves Neville, Harry and I as Three, which would probably have worked best with Ron instead of Neville, because of the Trio connotation we've acquired over the years, but that would have lost us the blood-kin link that should transform the quadrilateral energy of the elements into an all-comprising circle, which is what we need, and I'm not about to risk the instability that loss might cause."

She had to stop to take a breath but she glared around at them, as if expecting anyone to contradict them (not that anyone would have dared).

"Right. Three is the true number of magic. Seven is esoteric, mysterious, imaginative, it is the power to manifest results in our lives through conscious thought and awareness; Three on the other hand is the full expression of creativity and intuition and brings to the Ritual the much-needed quality of versatility. Without Three, we wouldn't have the Ritual at all. It is also a Time identifier, as it represents Past, Present and Future: that's why it is always the basis of any time-altering magic. I've adapted this connotation to our own goal – dimension travelling – by strengthening the link between Three and Four, specifically to the four directions."

"So that's why you doubled the frequency of the linking Runes along the cross that connects the Four with the centre", commented Draco.

"Yes, but it has also another use", replied Hermione. "You see, with the way I've arranged us, we will be able to take on more than one role, interweaving them."

She paused for a moment, as if in thought, then went on: "You, Harry, will be right in the middle, with Neville and I flanking you in a straight line rather than the most common triangular shape."

Harry raised his eyebrows but didn't comment.

"You will be in the middle of everything. The Circle, the Runic arrays, your own Rune string, both the etched and the drawn lines. And of course, in the middle of the group, us participants I mean. You'll be our centre. Our core."

Harry was starting to feel uneasy, but didn't dare interrupt her solemn tone.

"This will allow us to achieve Seven once more – as Five and Two." She closed her eyes a moment. "Five is… travel, motion, adventure, radical changes. It is our goal in a nutshell."

Everybody smiled fleetingly.

"Unfortunately, it is also instability and unpredictability. Since we're making Five with Four and One like on a dice, though, rather than with Two and Three, we should be able to counter the wild, erratic qualities thanks to the steadying nature of Four."

"Also, One will narrow down the goal Five expresses", added Ginny, "thus lessening its chaotic nature by the focus of its own qualities: Strong Will, Pure Energy, Positiveness and New Beginnings."

"All things our Harry embodies perfectly", said Luna angelically, making him blush.

"I don't…"

"Yes, you do", chorused Ron and Ginny, making everybody chuckle at Harry's reddening face.

Hermione went on: "With you making Five, Neville and I will be Two. Two means duality and equalization, which will be strengthened by our being a male-female pair, by the way, but above all else it means balance. It is the quiet side of power, the planned and reasoned one."

"Which means Neville, who is calm and logical, will be more suited to this role than Ron would have been", interrupted Luna resolutely.

Hermione grimaced but nodded. "Two should completely balance out the flighty nature of Five, leaving only its better qualities of initiative and wonder. Plus, and this is important, we'll provide a steady, equalized base to Harry's One."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry, starting to become seriously worried.

She ignored him. "By making Three with Two and One, we're adding several advantages. Three will gain the connotation of cooperation for a common goal thanks to the synergy between Two's partnership valence and One's tendency to start new ventures. Also, the combination of Two's push to choice and One's push to action will result in a greater relevance for the side-connotation of Three as reward and success. Besides, this will overlap another Seven to the previous two: Six and One."

She smirked. "Six, the six of us in a supporting position to Harry's One, will bring harmony and the qualities of diplomacy and problem-solving, which will hopefully smooth out any wrinkles in the fabric of the Ritual and will also compliment the most valued of One's properties – Strong Will and Leadership."

She took a deep breath and, for the first time since she started the explanation, looked Harry straight in the eyes.

"This makes you One of Three, One of Five and One of Seven, as well as One in balanced opposition to Two, to Four and to Six. As I said, the centre of everything. The core of the Ritual."

Harry was positively alarmed by now.

"You, Harry, will be our Weaver."

There was a moment of silence, then Draco proclaimed: "Good choice."

Everybody else was nodding along. Only Harry felt like a fish suddenly thrown on dry land.

"And what, exactly, does that mean?" he asked with forceful calm.

"Simply put, that you'll be the one to direct the Ritual", said Hermione efficiently.

"_What?_ No way!"

"Look, Harry, you're by far the best choice…" tried Hermione in a reasonable tone.

"_No way in Hell!"_

She frowned, irritated, and opened her mouth to berate him, but Ron raised a hand, stopping her. "Give us a minute, will ya?"

Everybody watched in puzzlement as he dragged Harry aside and threw a _muffliato_ their way.

"Listen, mate. There's a bit more to this than what you know, and even than what Hermione can tell you", he said without preambles.

"Ron, you can't seriously be thinking I should do… whatever… when I don't even have a clue as to _what-_"

"Yes, you should", said Ron bluntly. Then as Harry opened his mouth again: "Shut up and listen, mate. I don't know much about rituals and such, but I grew up magical and I remember my mum's stories about this stuff."

Harry mulishly tried to interrupt: "I don't see-"

Ron didn't let him finish. "A ritual as complex as this can't be done by one person alone, no-one's that powerful."

"So? There's seven of us, what's the problem?" said Harry sullenly.

"The _problem_, you git, is that we need a Weaver, that is, someone who orchestrates, who directs the others and makes sure everyone do their part at the right time!"

Harry stared at him incredulously. "And you want _me _to do it? Are you all daft? I have no idea what the 'right' time even is!"

"Doesn't matter…"

"How can it not matter?" cried Harry exasperated.

"Let me finish, won't you! This is stuff wizardfolk learn as kids, Harry. I'm trying to explain the best I can!"

He took a deep breath. "'Tis like this. The Weaver is the one who actually performs the ritual, because he is the one who gathers all the necessary power and spins it, filtering through the sequence as needed. _However_", he raised his voice over Harry's protests that he _didn't know the sequence_, "the Circle and Runes and all that other stuff, they're supposed to keep the ritual on track by themselves. 'Tis only on the traditional seasonal rituals that the Weaver creates the whole thing on the moment, nowadays, rest of the time it's all Arithmancy."

"So you're saying I don't need to know a thing about the Ritual in order to be the… Weaver?" asked Harry disbelievingly.

"You will know _something_", Ron said patiently. "We all will, you can bet Hermione'll make sure of that. But no, you won't need to _direct_ the Ritual, or us, or anything. All you have to do is gather the power and spin it at the proper pace and- actually, scratch that. If the Ritual is properly constructed, which it surely is because this is Hermione we're talking about, it should draw what power it needs when it needs it on its own. No input from you needed", he concluded cheerfully.

"So what, my role is just symbolical?" asked Harry both hopefully and sceptically.

"Except for gathering the power… yeah, I guess it is."

"Except for…" Harry trailed off, closing his eyes on the sudden urge to bang his head on the wall. Or Ron's.

"And what, pray tell, does 'gathering the power' mean?" he asked with dangerous sweetness.

Ron sighed as if put upon. "What does it sound like, Harry? You have to take our magic and weave it all together, then you'll power the Ritual", he said matter-of-factly.

Harry choked. "_Take_ _your_… What the hell!"

Ron looked puzzled, then sudden understanding lit up his eyes. "Oh, stop worrying you noble git. It's temporary, of course. You're not going to come out of this any more powerful than you're now."

Marginally relieved, Harry moved to his next objection: "But I don't know how to do all this, Ron, I… I can't!"

"Sure you can", was the cheery reply, "'s-matter of fact, you are the only one who can."

Harry stared.

Ron stared back.

"Explain", muttered Harry gritting his teeth.

Ron watched him for a moment, then slowly said: "Harry, I'm not sure if you know this or not, but no-one, and I mean _no-one_, can take someone else's magic. Oh, now and then people _claim_ they can, like the Fallen Ministry with their idiotic theory on Muggleborns, or that Dark Lady what's-her-name in the Renaissance, but it's never true, just propaganda. I mean, if it was possible, Voldie would have done it with the Dark Mark, wouldn't he?"

"But you just said…"

Ron shook his head. "What I meant is, we will _give_ you our magic. An offering, if you will, to make the Ritual work. It _was_ Sacrificial Magic at the dawn of time, after all."

Harry sighed dejectedly. "I don't understand. And why me?" he asked petulantly.

Ron smiled. "Harry, for the Ritual to work, all the power has to be concentrated in the hands of one person, called the Weaver. Okay?"

Harry nodded resignedly.

"This person can't _take_ the magic, though: it must be given to him or her."

"Oo-kay…"

"So tell me this, Harry. To whom, among us, would we _all_ be willing to entrust our magic, however temporarily?"

Harry stared at Ron. Well, what could he answer to that.

He sighed.

"All right."

Ron mimed the sign for victory to the others, who cheered.

Harry morosely sent up a silent prayer that he wouldn't botch up anything.

* * *

The new moon arrived at long last.

The last minute preparations were going as smoothly as a well oiled machine.

Harry marvelled at the serenity that filled the atmosphere. He would have expected excitement, frantic rush, maybe even fear.

Instead, he felt relaxed, confident, at peace and most of all, full of hope. The others looked much the same.

All of the arguments and problems and difficulties of the last few months – and he had to admit they'd had their fair share of rough spots – were in the past now, irrelevant, nothing more than fond memories, suddenly distant.

His friends stepped up in their prescribed places, and he took his own.

The moment Ron uttered the first syllable he felt all his senses suddenly sharpen and a hum so low it could barely be heard filled the air...

* * *

_A/N__ 3: If I got this correctly, Ainníleas is pronounced ANeelyus and_ _Deoráin,__ DOrin. _

_A/N 4: __Acknowledgements__: _

_The idea of the Venetian extremely secretive magical community is taken from __Chapter 26 – The Masquerade and the Apocalypse of Louis IX's "Mastermind Hunting" (I couldn't resist including it, it's just too awesome). _

_A few ideas for the Ritual are inspired by the-dreame__r4's "The Awakening of a Magus" and a few others by one of my favourite novels ever, U. K. LeGuinn's "The left hand of darkness", which is too beautiful for words._


	5. Unchosen

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others, most notably J. K. Rowling and Square Enix; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

_In particular, a few ideas for the Ritual are inspired by esama's lovely "My Shield, My Sword" and a few others by U. K. LeGuinn's amazingly captivating "The left hand of darkness", a truly entrancing read._

* * *

Five. Like candles snuffed out

The soft humming sound filled the air, permeating every corner and reverberating through Harry's very bones.

It felt surprisingly pleasant, like a tingle running up and down his every nerve: it made him think of a soft laughter, of an expectant murmur.

The voice of his best friend echoed in the room and it was strong and hushed at the same time, in a weird contrast that complimented the hum surprisingly well, as if providing a melody to the silent, permeating harmony.

Ron stood tall and proud in the North point of the pre-arranged pattern and Harry focused on him, watching the slow, wide yet controlled gestures that accompanied his words.

He was Earth, Foundation, the Strength of Roots.

He looked the part: his long, short-sleeved tunic was made of a rough, sturdy fabric dyed in the various colours of clay and its cut emphasized Ron's tall and muscled frame, while the flickering lights highlighted coppery streaks in his recently shortened hair.

Harry suddenly realized that he could see a faint aura about Ron, little more than a trick of the light, yet slowly coalescing around the red-head in an outline of dark, greenish flames.

He half-unconsciously reached out a welcoming hand: they would need that strength.

Then it was Luna's turn.

Her clear, soothing voice rose from behind him, soaring, floating.

The words were meaningless, Harry knew, it was only the intent that mattered, yet they seemed to resonate with power.

He turned quickly and sure enough, as she joined the Circle from the South bringing Autumn and Air, he caught the light blue aura of flames forming slowly around her.

She was Air, Change, the Freedom of Flight.

Her pale hair was freely waving around her, moving in a non-existent breeze; she was wrapped, more than dressed, in softly swaying gauze-like veils of shimmering silvery-grey colours, very light; her milky complexion sprinkled with glittering whitish make-up, evanescent.

She looked ethereal.

Draco's voice was as sharp as broken glass, coming from Harry's left.

Cerulean flames sprang up and twisted around him, engulfing his elegant, oriental-cut robes which cascaded beautifully around his lean body, several layers of heavy silk pooling gracefully around him.

He was Water, Flexibility, the Relentlessness of Adaptation.

Harry admired him for an instant, marvelling at his fluid, flittering movements, then turned once more, to watch Ginny, chin held high and eyes ablaze, more beautiful than he'd ever seen her.

Tight leather bandaged her taut body, as black as ebony, and Harry caught himself for a fleeting instant mourning the loss of her glorious, auburn locks. They would have looked stunning falling alluringly against her outfit.

She looked like seduction and danger personified, at the same time captivating and alienating.

She was Fire, Energy, the Rebirth in Destruction.

Her voice was low and hard as she completed her part of the invocation, impatient golden flames spiking up around her.

With the last syllable, the blaze around each of the four flared more brightly for an instant, then started spinning and moving randomly up and down and finally coalesced in pale circles over their heads.

Harry impulsively shot his arms skywards and the pale circles flared again in response, then as he instinctively lowered his arms, they extended down to become cylinders around the four, their colours ebbing away into a golden hue; the top of the cylinders dropped to become a circle on the floor, which flared, then spread like burning liquid, running towards Harry, filling the lines and runes etched on the floor rapidly.

The next part, Harry remembered, would be Hermione's responsibility: hers was the task to slow down that spread and give the liquid energy purpose, direction.

As Hermione started the long list of incantations she had taken upon herself to vocalize, the watery flames rose horizontally, evaporating into mist-like outlines that still retained the runic patterns. They stopped soon, hovering about three feet over the floor.

The humming sound gradually changed, deepening until it was a diffuse rumble just barely perceptible, almost more vibration than actual sound.

Neville started to move calmly, entwining a strange, hypnotic dance with Hermione's spoken syllables. As he treaded through the bright mists, tendrils seemed to adhere to his limbs and trail his motions in a rapidly expanding film of light.

This was a delicate part, as Neville's refusal to speak, to which he'd remained true in spite of Hermione's furious frustration, had forced the brilliant witch to rework a different, far less known way of channelling ritualistic magic through movements rather than relying on the much more dependable words.

It seemed to be working, though. With every twist and turn of Neville's body, the energies that the four had called up and Hermione was trying to direct started flowing in controlled circles, paced by Neville's cadence, spinning around and around the whole Circle and in smaller circles around each of them, cycling through colours but tinted with dark green nearest to Ron, light blue for Luna, cerulean blue for Draco, golden yellow for Ginny, greenish brown for Neville, whitish grey for Hermione, and finally deep purple around Harry, shades blending into each other seamlessly like in a stormy painting.

Magic gathered strength around them, concentrating inside the Circle; Harry could almost see it becoming ever denser, until it started emitting a gentle glow that bent the air, creating the smallest breach of light within the spinning circles that in an indefinable way made more sense to him than they should have.

Without stopping to think it through, he reached out with his own power and took over the core of energy his mind labelled 'compass' without him really knowing why, except that it felt right.

He heard Hermione's voice falter with a squeak before she quickly recovered and completed her formal incantation, though bewilderment and worry could be heard in her tone.

Was he doing something wrong? But it _felt_ right and he couldn't bring himself to doubt his unexpected insight.

It was weird, for Harry hadn't truly understood the Ritual beyond the basics, he didn't even remember more than half of what Hermione had explained, and yet, he could sense it now, see the patterns, feel where the magic was doing what it should and where it was about to go astray, know every nuance of the delicate, powerful rite.

His mind scrambled to make sense of something that he was understanding at a deeper level than knowledge and consciousness could reach.

It offered metaphors as the only way to shape this overwhelming experience, yet not one of them was enough to describe what he was seeing. They were like glimpsing instead of seeing, for they tried to confine something that was unbound, and each gave a distinct and restrictive point of view that was true, and at the same time denied by another just as true.

It was like a majestic symphony, his friends' magic each a different instrument, joining in a powerful harmony: but Harry didn't know much about music, couldn't recognize the instruments, had no words to describe the sounds he was awed by.

Taste, that was perhaps a better way to describe it: for he could almost match the tart sophisticated white wine with Hermione, the syrupy intoxicating sherry with Draco, the sensible bittersweet beer with Ron; the fresh mint liqueur was Luna, the hot chocolate with a dash of rum was Ginny, the apple wine was Neville…

But that attempt at separating, identifying, felt wrong, for it couldn't account for the richer, fulfilling flavour that was the blending of each one, despite the fact that Harry couldn't imagine tasting chocolate and beer at the same time, or mixing sherry and mint…

Yet he couldn't give up trying to delineate the formless, to define the indefinable, the way human mind will always look for shapes in the clouds, for we cannot comprehend infinity and must try and reduce it to something familiar, understandable.

Quidditch, that he understood well: and suddenly his mind was thinking in terms of flying stunts, watching his friends' magic perform manoeuvres, dodging around and around each other, closely following one another's movements and exchanging places every few seconds, so that the pattern of their flight formed a double helix here, a spiral dive there, now passing each other in the middle, then performing some feat further apart from one another, dropping falcon-like, soaring weightlessly, in a fluid economy of motion that spoke to Harry more clearly than even words ever could.

It was fascinating.

But then Harry stopped trying to make sense of it abruptly, because something was wrong, a strident note was too discordant, a bitter spike was ruining the taste, a blotch of brownish grey was marring the beauty, an unwanted weight was upsetting the balance.

With barely a thought, he reached out to rectify it.

His power flew, heavy and torpid like treacle, and the energies shifted.

The slight humming sound, that was now almost like a purr, was joined by another that combined with the first one to create a steady rhythm. Mimicking this, another glow joined the first one and the breach of light grew, its edges parting lightly like gauzes in a breeze.

It was beautiful; but then again, power always is.

The auras that were spinning around each of them began to separate into tendrils of energy; then the hum went silent and the tendrils shot out suddenly, reaching to the other members of the Circle, to the left, to the right and across, skinning around the other auras, which in turn spun and cracked when grazed, eventually engulfing them in bright light.

The light was unlike anything Harry'd ever seen before, it was truly awe-inspiring. He smiled, feeling that everything was set properly: the atmosphere was charged with excited impatience.

There was a sense of euphoria and closeness among the seven of them; their breathing synchronized, their hearts beating as one.

It felt amazing.

The lack of sound gave the moment a peculiar, unreal quality.

Harry was on hold, breathless, still, floating in the middle of a web weaved with silence.

Somehow knowing that he alone could break that stillness and move them all forward, he took a steadying breath and raised his hand in a gesture of calling.

Instantly every face in the Circle was turned to him, as if he had summoned their gazes, gathering them up in a bundle.

The feeling of closeness intensified.

They were all connected, each of them the holding knot of a spider-web of coruscate energy and Harry could feel the connection keenly, could perceive the waves of silent communication flowing, wordless, inarticulate, through him, and he knew, _knew_, on a deeper level than his consciousness could truly be aware of, that he could weave it, control it, give it a meaning and a goal, because he was the pivotal point, he was the Weaver.

The web of energy, the fabric of tension and silence, grew, strengthened; and suddenly Harry felt fear. For there was temptation in it… to be sucked into it, become but a dot or a shape in that drawing, become a part of the web, a mere filament within something greater… it was hard to remain true to himself…

The energy built and built in them and it went back and forth, and at every passage it grew, doubled, every time the impulse was stronger…

He'd always been stubborn; he'd always been impervious to the lures of compulsions and mind controls.

But all the same, he was losing his balance, falling, falling…

And then the energy reached its peak, and crashed, investing him like a pillar of coalescing power.

For an instant, Harry felt everything in stark clarity: his friends, the runes, the room around them, every minute detail, and all was connected, all was gathered into him, fulcrum, conduit, core: and he felt the power as an entity, not living yet almost, not sentient yet almost, something less then a being but more then just energy, and it quivered, eager, almost-but-not-quite asking 'what now?'

It needed direction, a goal, and Harry cast about to provide it, probing reality on instinct alone…

And an unlikely occurrence happened: the discharge of magic he released into the flickering veils of realities found an unexpected echo.

Someone else was tampering with the space-time continuum.

He could feel Hermione's voice in the background, a little shrill, a little frantic, rattling off the chant needed to direct them to the world of their choice, desperately trying to overcome whatever Harry himself was carelessly doing.

Her will was shifting them, their reality, towards the wanted direction, with all the inertia of a massive ship being steered by a too small bar, surely but slowly, oh, so slowly. And Harry's curiosity was like a contrary wind, straining the winds towards an alternate, unexpected heading…

Had he been more experienced a Weaver, maybe this wouldn't have happened; but he was helpless to stop it and instead of two worlds getting closer and closer until they superimposed, making their passage from one to another irrelevant, a third world came up and got in the way…

…Evanescent like mist or a dream at first, then coalescing in a small tableau…

A strange woman lay on a patch of grass, in what appeared to be a garden encircled by barely visible stone walls; another, dark-clothed woman knelt beside her, a hand extended in a helping gesture; a young man holding a wicked looking weapon surveyed the scene from aside.

The woman on the ground was clad in a skin-tight red satin ball gown, with a plunging neckline exposing her neck, chest, stomach and abdomen and a bodice and collar edged by a black-fur ruffle.

Harry couldn't be sure from this angle, but he thought he could spot black feathered wings on her, and purple taloned hands, to which her long red sleeves were joined. He blinked in shock when he realized her bare feet resembled those of a lion and vaguely wondered _what_ she was.

He also registered tattoos with lined patterns on her exposed skin but her most striking feature were undoubtedly the yellow eyes set amongst purple eye shadow, slowly but inexorably glazing over.

The woman was dying.

The other lady had great physical beauty and a refined, sophisticated air about her, the kind of combination that would enchant her friends and beguile her enemies effortlessly.

Yet she wore a modest black dress with little jewellery, her long black hair set loose around her without affectation.

The man was watching them with a pained expression.

He was tall, brown-haired and didn't look any older than Harry himself. He wore a distinctive black leather bomber jacket with fur trim on the collar and black pants along with three interconnecting red belts.  
He held himself stiff but not rigidly and Harry vaguely thought 'military', despite the fact that he wasn't wearing a uniform, from what he could tell. Then again, he was certainly a warrior, the strange weapon in his hands testified as much.

Harry could hear sounds too, on-and-off, like from a broken radio. Sea waves. Murmured conversation. Children's laughter.

His curiosity flared, unrestricted, impossible to ignore.

The magic reacted to it immediately and put their original reality in contact with this one, easily, almost too readily. But without the safeguards Hermione and Draco had built into the ritual, the new destination was unprotected from the violence of contact.

Harry saw the piercing force with which their unanticipated arrival was shredding the boundaries of that world and panicked, realizing too late that innocents could be hurt by his thoughtless actions, unrelated casualties of his ignorance and his tendency to throw himself into things head first.

He couldn't let it happen!

With a momentous effort, he withdrew his own magic from the ritual that was still building connections, tearing carelessly through the veils of reality, and instead poured it with all his will into erecting a shield that could protect the three unknown people he had inadvertently endangered.

He heard disoriented cries from his friends and with an unspoken curse threw his magic back into protecting them as well, suddenly terrified that he would lose them to save these strangers.

The power was spread over too many things, too conflicting goals and it snapped down and through them all cruelly, pushing, pulling, swirling, digging, flaring, flying, cutting, diving, permeating every cell of their bodies, every corner of their minds, merging them for an eternity, an instant.

All Harry could do was hold on and channel all of his considerable strength of will into protecting his friends and the strangers he was seeing.

The worlds shifted and trembled, casually interpenetrating each other, seeking a new equilibrium after the upset they were causing.

Then abruptly settled into a contented background hum.

Their world and the new world were connected, Harry realized, but loosely, and just as loosely they were both connected to a third place, where he could almost make out a countryside dominated by steep hills.

But something more pressing was happening and he turned to the three strangers with unease.

He could feel, could almost _see_, the red-clad woman – if she was a woman at all – dying, fading, her energy – why was it so familiar? – pouring seamlessly into the tense lady kneeling beside her.

The young man seemed to suddenly sense them: his eyes snapped up to Harry abruptly and immediately widened in shock – and was that _recognition_ in them?

Harry was confused, but there was no time… no way… no chance to ask…

The brown-haired stranger stepped up to him and his steps were wobbling, his image faltering in the mist-like realities, but the scar across his face stood out starkly on his handsome features and his eyes held the shine of a reluctant hero, of a leader who hadn't chosen his path and Harry felt a sudden kinship.

"…him…me…" the stranger's voice came to Harry only in fragments "…must help… survive, help me come back… time is right…" he was saying urgently but Harry could not fathom what he meant by that.

Suddenly there were children running towards them – five, six? – Harry tried to shout them back, tried desperately to keep them out, this was dangerous… but he was like an immaterial dream, unseen, unheard…

The boy in front had spiky brown hair and when he raised his clear eyes, full of fear and fury, it was Harry's turn to stare in shock and recognition, and he looked up sharply to meet the same eyes on the older version and the understanding in them weighed him down.

"Time compression," was all the other grimly said, and Harry needed no more.

For an instant, an eternity, they all remained suspended like that, Hermione's frantic attempts at recovering the ritual a distant, ignored background.

Then some hidden equilibrium was shattered, the stranger thrust his weapon – was it a blade? A gun? Both? – into Harry's hands then, with surprising strength and speed, grabbed the now dead female and jumped away, out of the mist, out of range of the merging realities…

And Harry was falling, falling rapidly, through layers and layers of veils that weren't veils, and everybody was falling with him, his friends, the dark-clad lady, the children, and all were screaming in panic and Harry couldn't take it, he had to do something, he had to protect them, save them, stop this, he had to and with an enormous effort he wrenched control of the magic back from the multiverse and thrust it violently back into the proper paths Hermione had designed, slowing down, weaving the churning energies around himself, around them all, until the uncontrollable spinning became somewhat controllable and then rhythmic patterns, and relief entered Hermione's voice like a soothing wave, and he could see his friends regain some balance in their places, their eyes wide with worry and marvel, and the children's panic lessened and gave way to awe as they watched the coruscating fireworks…

But it wasn't enough, it wasn't enough…

The ritual was back to due course, but it wasn't progressing… he could protect them, but only here, in this void that wasn't empty, here, nowhere and everywhere, here forever, suspended for eternity, unable to return to reality, suspended in between worlds, and Harry despaired…

…but a delicate, strong hand clamped down on his wrist, long black nails digging sharply in, drawing blood, and Harry turned to meet oriental black eyes, unfathomable, indomitable, set like gems in a small, lovely face, as remote and as dangerous and as attractive as the sea…

…and energy poured into him – magic – and the woman smiled, a thin, remote smile, and Harry felt a nudge from her – not physical, but very real – and it was enough, at last it was enough, he was falling again, and this time it was slow and meaningful and directed and instinct guided him in taking the others along and the strange woman – witch? – was taking care of regulating the flow of throbbing energies, filtering them somehow, pacing them, and Harry needn't worry anymore, and he was back to being the fulcrum and everything settled back in place…

…and the ebbing magic surged one last time, depositing them in their targeted world, fusing and then separating the veils again, making the millions of other possibilities, of un-chosen options, fade away into nothing, into everything, into might-have-beens that would never be…

Deep within him, the remnants of Harry's magic grew warm, radiating strongly as never before, and the lights in him, around him, were spinning so fast that it looked like they started to spin backwards and the air itself started to bend around them all.

Then at last the gauze-like veils between realities fell back into place, disappearing seamlessly as if they'd never been parted at all, and they were Elsewhere.

Last thing Harry saw was a flash of multicolour light engulfing them all.

* * *

He woke up to warm sun gently caressing his face, the soft sound of running water nearby and the fresh smell of spring grass all around him…

* * *

_A/N: Well, that's done at last! Bet you weren't expecting this, huh? _

_A/N 2_: _The title of this Chapter_ _comes from Philip Pullman's_ _**The Amber Spyglass**_: "_When you choose one way out of many, all the ways you don't take are snuffed out like candles, as if they'd never existed_." _Because you can't talk about travelling through worlds and not quote Pullman – simple as that._


	6. Grief

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others, most notably J. K. Rowling, Square Enix and Masashi Kishimoto; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

_Warnings for Chapter Four: character death._

* * *

Six. Like sorrow that sings softly and sweet

Harry opened his eyes and contemplated the vivid green and luminous blue before him. The sun was high and warm on his skin and he could feel a gentle breeze moving the grass he was laying on slightly. Only the soft sound of a watercourse nearby could be heard…

It was idyllic.

Quiet.

Restful.

So why did he feel as if something was wrong?

An eerie note in the apparent peace…

The smell?...

It wasn't an unknown or unfamiliar one…

But it wasn't a smell he would associate with greens and blues… more like greys and reds and blacks…

Smoke!

It was the smell of smoke…

…and not the pleasant smoke of lit hearths in the winter or camp fires around which tales get exchanged in the summer nights…

…no, this was the smoke he'd smelled the day after the Last Battle…

…or the morning after the Quidditch World Cup of 1994…

It was the smell of ruins and remains.

Of destruction…

* * *

As soon as his brain managed to process this, Harry was on his feet, swallowing down the wave of nausea that rose powerfully in him.

The beautiful landscape swayed around him and he staggered and caught himself and fought back another fit of queasiness, trying to recover his sense of equilibrium that seemed to have deserted him, leaving him dizzy and confused.

The word 'backlash' flittered through his brain.

He was sure it was important, but for the life of him couldn't exactly figure out why. At the moment, everything was hazy and made sense only in the vaguest way…

He forced himself to take short, shallow breaths, like his martial arts instructor had taught him, to avoid hyperventilation.

Details.

He concentrated on that simple concept slowly crystallizing in his foggy mind.

Details were… important.

Details could help.

If he was too dizzy to get the whole picture, he should nonetheless catalogue everything he could see and maybe then he would be able to put it all together.

Emotions, thoughts, could come later.

Observation was an excellent first step.

If he could just list everything, put each element in place, he was sure it would all end up making sense…

Bright green hills rolled in gentle waves all around him, a pleasing landscape whose beauty was marred by–

Smoking destruction.

A village, Harry realized, a very small village, ruined.

Whatever had happened, the effects were like the combination of an earthquake and an explosion.

Bodies lay scattered everywhere in a wide area, much wider than the smouldering ruins, unconscious.

No, corrected his mind immediately with punctilious preciseness.

_Some_ were out cold.

Others… well, there was no mistaking that heavy quality… he'd seen it too much to misinterpret it… Death had visited this place...

Very few others were stirring, looking as disoriented as he felt. Most were children. All were outside the area of the small village. Those who had awakened were milling about aimlessly, reaching out to the unconscious bodies but snatching their hands back at the last minute, not daring to actually touch.

He could not see his friends.

Painstakingly, he turned the attention onto himself and was distantly shocked to find he was gripping an odd-looking weapon.

It seemed to consist of some sort of sword blade with some type of gun mechanism built into the hilt, with its barrel running inside the length of the blade. A light but strong chain, as shiny as silver but looking infinitely harder than the common metal, was wrapped around the strange hilt.

The… thing… was absolutely striking, all polished metal and icy blues, its design elegant and essential. It was made of materials that looked exotic to Harry and vaguely made him think of dragons.

Swirling strands of memories made their way hazily into his mind… right… the strange young man from the reality he'd gatecrashed gave it to him… and told him… something… something important… he couldn't remember.

A groan nearby distracted him.

Not too far from where he was standing, he spotted a rather young woman – not very much more than a girl in fact – wearing what looked like a uniform of sorts: over black, form-fitting slacks and a t-shirt she had a sort of military-looking vest with a zipper down the middle, a number of pockets and three small pouches on each side of her chest.

Harry's attention was caught by the headband holding back her short black hair: a metal plate engraved with a circular, closed spiral, set on a band of navy blue cloth. It struck him as significant and he made a mental note about it for when his brain would start working again.

The girl groggily dragged herself to a sitting position, looked around and promptly started panicking.

Her high-pitched, incomprehensible words poured out in a frantic flow that made a sudden headache flare behind Harry's eyes. With a scowl, he activated the translation charm Luna had somehow gleaned from the journals and transferred to small, discreet pendants they all now wore.

With relief he found that the babbling suddenly made sense.

Or at least, every word was understandable.

"…happened? Oh, Kami! What… No, no, no, it can't have happened! The village! It's gone! How could this be? How could it have happened? It was an explosion! Someone attacked us! They destroyed us! How could they? A freaking explosion! Oh, Kami! The children! What happened to the children? Are they alright? Oh no, oh no, oh no! What if they're dead? _Are_ they dead? Am _I_ dead? No, no, I'm not dead! I'm not even hurt, good. But the children! The children! Oh, Kami, what if they're hurt! I'm their teacher! I'm responsible! What am I going to do? What am I supposed to do?..."

She was saying all this very fast, in an almost continuous stream. It made Harry wonder if she was drawing breath at all. With faint amusement, he thought that she reminded him of a very young and eager Hermione – albeit more frantic.

Then he frowned again, his mind slowly focusing on _what_ she was saying rather than _how_.

"…come back to finish us? Oh, Kami, they'll come back and kill us all! I must protect the children! I'm the only one! The last adult! It's my responsibility! But I don't know what to do… but I'm the only one left… wait a minute!"

She abruptly rounded on Harry, eyes feverishly bright. "You! You're alive! I'm not the only one! You're an adult! And you're alive! Oh, thank Kami! I'm not alone after all! But wait! Who are you? How can you be alive? Everybody's dead! Except you! And me! But I've never seen you before! Who are you? Oh, no, oh, no! You're one of them, aren't you? You're the one who's attacked us! You destroyed our village! You!... Oh, but no, wait, I'm an idiot! If you were an enemy you'd have killed me already! So you're one of us, oh, that's a relief! But how come I've never seen you before? Our village is so small! Well, was… oh, Kami, everyone's gone! Except you… and you're unhurt… you must be a super special ninja! I know! You're one of the Black Arrows! That's why I've never seen you! You're super awesome! Oh, Kami, I can't believe it! We're saved! You're going to protect us all! I must find the children and check on them…"

Black Arrows? Attack? Harry wondered how he should respond to the girl's hysterical monologue, but in the end, he couldn't bring himself to say anything and she was interrupted, instead, by a sudden burst of movement on the grassy slope before them.

A girl of five or six tore through the bright green landscape at a run, waving wildly to Harry – or, more likely, to his companion.

Harry recognized the word 'Sensei!' amidst a string of incomprehensible words, that abruptly morphed into understandable cries when the child came close enough to be 'gripped' by the Translation Charm.

Harry made a mental note to talk to Luna about the range of the charm: wouldn't do to be unable to understand something shouted at them from a distance… unless they claimed some form of deafness or something…

Then he stiffened: the little girl's sniffling and frightened babbling was amounting to something concrete: someone was hurt – a woman.

"Show me where she is," he told her perhaps more harshly than he'd intended, startling teacher and child badly.

The girl pressed herself against her 'sensei', fixing wide, frightened eyes on Harry, who winced. He hadn't meant to scare her.

The teacher seemed to have lost all of her hyperventilating panic in front of a child in distress and was now talking soothingly, encouraging the girl to trust him, to obey him. Again, the term 'Black Arrows' came up, and the girl's eyes went even wider, turning from frightened timidity to wary awe, which wasn't much better in Harry's book.

He was uneasy: sooner or later he would have to straighten the misunderstanding out. But… but for now, the fact that they were mistaking him for one of these 'Black Arrows', whatever they were, meant the girl calmed down and did exactly as he said, showing him and the young 'sensei' where the injured woman lay.

* * *

Harry recognized from afar the sophisticated lady that had helped him bring everybody here. Her black dress was an austere, incongruous element against the cheery brightness of the grass under the blaze of the afternoon sun.

He ran, dropping to his knees to her side amidst a group of children that had gathered around her, looking dazed and scared. He glanced awkwardly at their distressed faces, uncertain about how to deal with their upset. After a moment he shrugged uneasily, doing his best to ignore the tendril of guilt he felt at not taking care of them, because he simply didn't know how!

Instead, he concentrated on the woman now lying at his feet.

She really was lovely… but she was also as pale as a sheet – or a ghost, he thought bleakly, his heart sinking fast. He'd seen too many people on the brink of death to mistake the situation.

The beautiful woman was dying.

She lay quiet, suffering, a slight grimace of pain on her beautiful features, in an eerie mimicry of the strange woman she had been assisting on her home world. A tragically fitting comparison…

He recognized with dread that there was nothing he could do to save her: whatever was killing her – an injury? magical exhaustion? something else entirely? – Harry was powerless to stop it.

Some of the children must have realized the same, for they were sniffling in sorrow and fright, or outright wailing. A blond boy was shouting angrily, at the woman, at Harry, at the other children, at the world at large. Harry had a sudden thought of surprise at how _normal_ they looked – dressed in jeans and t-shirts and colourful sweats like any child would in his home world – but even he knew that it was just a random thought designed to take some of the pressure off his whirling mind, as the reality of the situation revealed itself grimmer and grimmer.

Impotence and rage rose within him. There was nothing to do. Nothing!

He moved instinctively to grasp the dying woman's hand, wanting to offer what comfort he could, but she withdrew it jerkily. Harry frowned, perplexed. She was looking worriedly around, seeming unexpectedly panicked, and trying to form words despite the obvious effort it was taking him.

Perplexed, Harry made a soothing noise and tried to touch her again, but she again refused, looking frantic. Broken words started tumbling fast from her bluish lips amidst painful gasps. What was going on?

Disconcerted, he watched her looking around wildly. She was frantic, yet quite clearly didn't want Harry's help. But what was she seeking then?

The girls that had come with her were crying and speaking rapidly and it was all gibberish to Harry, who could not understand, why wasn't the translation charm working? Then he thought that of course it wouldn't work, they came from a different world, the pendant wasn't geared for their language… but wait… the man who'd given him the weapon… he'd understood him… he had spoken English, hadn't he?... and now that he thought of it, wasn't it odd?...

Harry shook the confusing thoughts away as he focused on the woman again, but there was nothing he could do and he knew it and something told him that she knew it too. He didn't dare reach for her again and with a heavy heart, resigned himself to simply watch her die.

She, however, seemed to still have something to accomplish, for she was frantically scanning the faces around her, searching, searching… but for what?

A small, brown haired girl in green dungarees kneeled beside her, pleading earnestly in the strange language, but she too was refused, the grief and horror heavy in the lady's gaze. It was as if she could not bring herself to do what she so obviously needed to…

Then another, slightly older girl came closer, curious even if uncertain, and Harry's translation charm started working again. "What is going on? Can we help?"

Fast as a striking snake, the dying woman grabbed the new girl's wrist in a vice-like grip and Harry jumped in surprise. What was going on?

The 'sensei' he'd woken next to was shouting worriedly, but Harry, feeling both perplexed and fascinated, motioned to her to calm down and let things play out. He could barely make out what was happening.

It was as if _something_ was moving, transferring, from the lady to the girl and it felt so familiar… energy, _magic,_ pouring into the younger female, and Harry realized, eyes widening in shock, that the woman was _transferring__ her__ magic_ to the girl, and he felt horror, for this was _wrong_, it couldn't be happening, it couldn't be done!...

And then her unfathomable eyes, those onyx pools that had captivated him before with their remote strength, caught him again, and he was eerily reminded of another pair of black eyes boring into him, long ago in the desolation of the Shrieking Shack; and in their dark depths he read guilt and sorrow and the grim resignation of someone who'd done what is right and knows the cost will be too high…

And then she was gone, her gorgeous gaze blank and empty at last, her body lax in death, and Harry felt his own eyes dim with sorrow, with grief for a woman that he hadn't known, could not understand, and yet had touched him so deeply.

* * *

A terrible cry rang by his side, and jerking his head he managed to barely catch the oddly familiar icy-blue eyes of the child that he'd met as an adult, before the boy bolted.

Without really thinking on it, Harry sprang after him and caught the dark yellow and black t-shirt, slowing the child down and sweeping him into his arms, even as screams of fear and loneliness and utter rage burst from the boy.

He didn't mind the fury.

He knew it from bitter experience…

He remembered all too well how he'd felt after Sirius' death… the unbearable hollow feeling, too terrible to think about or examine, the dark hole inside him where Sirius had been… and the white-hot anger blazing, filling him with the desire to rush at Dumbledore and break him, too, shake him, shatter his calm, so that he, too, would hurt…

He understood.

So he let the child kick and punch and scream at him, and just like Dumbledore had done for him, he offered stillness and calmness… and simply held the boy, silently cursing the fate that forced him to play such a role for a child so young, too young…

He held onto him as the boy screamed and hit him and then sobbed and collapsed against his chest and held on with all his strength, crying his grief and rage and fear and loneliness and confusion into Harry's shirt, and then sighed wearily, more tired than if he'd run for miles.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the horror-stricken 'sensei' cradling the girl who had 'received' the 'magic': she was unconscious. He tried wordlessly to reassure the young teacher and the others around her, despite feeling out of his depth himself.

Then at last Neville's tall form appeared behind the small group and Harry felt such a powerful wave of relief that his knees buckled, suddenly weakened: he hadn't even grasped just how worried – terrified – he had truly been when he couldn't see his friends – too scared to let his mind so much as acknowledge the possibility of having lost them.

The 'sensei' eyed Neville with blatant distrust, clutching the unconscious girl protectively to her chest, and Harry sighed wearily: "Let him examine her. He's our Healer." He vaguely heard that the last word came out as 'medic-nin'. Huh… could work, he supposed…

As Neville knelt gently next to his patient, Harry's eyes jumped quickly around, even as he slowly carried the boy in his arms back to where he'd inadvertently dropped his strange weapon, seeking his friends.

They were alright! They were alright!

Luna – there, hugging a sobbing blond girl, as always serene in the face of grief… – Ron – grim looking but unhurt – Hermione – she was scowling at him, uh-oh… – Ginny – apart from everyone, scanning her surroundings – Draco – charmingly talking with two slightly older children who looked at him with stars in their eyes… he'd probably ferret out any and all information they would need, noted Harry with detached approval…

He met their eyes for an instant, in turn, and with every gaze they returned another part of him loosened and relaxed, relieved.

They are alright, his heart sang silently, they are alright!...

He let the brown-haired child slid to the ground and pushed him gently towards Luna, who was drawing all the children from the unexpected dimension together.

"I'll try and work out enough of their language for a translation spell to work," she told him quietly.

Harry nodded: "Good thinking." He picked up his weapon from where it had fallen, next to the mysterious dead woman. He turned it over and over in his hands, then let his eyes slide towards the boy who'd given it to him – in Harry's past, in the child's future.

"Hermione…" he started slowly, mind racing as he tried to put into words what he knew had to be done. "I need you to gather any data that might help us recreate the Ritual in reverse… for the children we accidentally dragged here to go back… when the time is right…"

"Impossible!" she rebuked him, outraged. "It was all I could do to make it work for _us_, in case you didn't notice, it was touch and go there for a moment, no thanks to you I might add, and you want me to do it for a bunch of kids I don't know, towards a place I have no clue about? Just how do you think…"

"I don't care," he cut her off. "I don't care how difficult it is or how long it'll take or… I just… I don't know the hows or whens or anything, but… just… just do your best to give us a starting point, ok?" He took a deep breath. "We did it, so we will do it."

"What are you...?"

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, exasperated.

Her scowl darkened even more, but she nodded curtly and stalked off without any more protests.

Harry shook his head to clear it. They would have to address the whole time compression mess, eventually, but right now, there were other priorities. "We need to think of security… a perimeter or something…" he started thinking aloud, his voice firmer than he expected.

"I'll take care of that," came Ginny's brusque voice.

Harry nodded again and she was off, a terse nod her only acknowledgement of her friends.

"Right. Next. Information. Draco…" he turned to the blond with a vague wave of his free hand.

"On it," the Slytherin answered promptly. "I'll give everyone a rundown later on."

"Food," continued Harry down his mental list.

He was slightly surprised when it was again Draco who answered: "The children who survived are a class… they were out on a survival training exercise… learning precisely how to procure food in this environment…"

Harry smiled faintly, getting the point, and turned to the young teacher, who was watching Neville like a hawk while the tall young man patched up a badly scraped knee.

She'd been paying attention, though, because she nodded sharply: "Oh, yes, sure, we can do it, no problem, they're good, I mean, you know, for being children, but they can totally do this, I know I've taught them more than enough, and it's a good thing that they have something to do, I mean, you know, to keep their minds off…" she swallowed convulsively "…and anyway, we can do this easily, only, you know, what if, I mean, hypothetically speaking, I'm not saying it'll happen, but someone did destroy the village, and what if they're still around, I mean, you know, waiting to finish us off, I would, I mean, if I were sent on a mission like this, I'd stay around to see it completed, so maybe there are still, you know, enemy nins, and food we can handle, sure, no problem, and the standard dangers around here, of course, but they're children, I mean, sure they'll be ninja one day, or should be, but right now, what if someone attacks, I'm not sure…"

"I'll watch over you," said Ron loud and clear.

The teacher stopped her babble and closed her mouth abruptly, turning a pair of bewildered eyes on the redhead. She looked uneasy and a little intimidated all of a sudden.

"I'll watch over them," reiterated Ron turning to Harry, evidently for approval.

"Very well," said Harry in what he hoped was an encouraging tone. He watched for a few moments as Ron started organizing the… class, Harry supposed… then moved his attention around, checking on his friends.

Everyone was deep in their chosen task.

His gaze moved again, encompassing the whole charred area… and the bodies. He sighed deeply.

Someone had to, he reminded himself, it was only right; and he couldn't ask anyone else if he wasn't willing to do it himself.

So with clenched teeth, he moved towards the nearest corpse.

* * *

One by one, Harry moved the bodies to the riverbank, laying them side by side just out of reach of the water lapping the grass.

There were so many. Memories of another battlefield assailed him, of corpses grouped together next to Dumbledore's White Tomb, near the Hogwarts Lake. Old, familiar grief held him in his grip as the faces of lost friends seemed to replace the unknown dead for fleeting instants.

It took time, and by the time he'd finished, the afternoon was at a close and the others, their tasks completed, had slowly joined him.

Last, he gathered the strange woman in his arms, lifting her gently. She was light, almost frail, but still beautiful in death.

He moved slowly, careful not to get entangled in her long black gown, and lowered her pale, still form among the others.

He felt empty as he straightened from the lovely corpse, but at the same time, he could feel the eyes of the children she'd left behind on him and knew they were expecting _something_ from him, he hardly knew what, but he could feel their grief-stricken gazes burning onto him, compelling.

Pointless, a part of him thought, there's nothing to do for her… there never will be anything to do for her, not anymore… but all the same, he gave in to the impulse, never even glancing at his silent audience but painfully aware of how keenly they watched his every move.

Slowly, he untangled the shiny chain adorning his new weapon, detaching it from the handle it had been wrapped around. Then he moved it with quiet gravity over the dead woman's chest, letting it go a little at a time, until it pooled smoothly on her chest, twisting around the pale hands Harry gently guided to lie on it.

A small dark head of spiky hair, barely reaching his waist, was suddenly next to him.

He bent to lift the serious child and stayed silent as the boy struggled to put something on the woman too. It looked like a rope bracelet, the kind children wove as good-luck charms… On the other side of the body, Luna was helping a sniffling blond child do the same, then a small, brown-haired girl that was outright sobbing…

The dark haired child twisted in Harry's embrace and threw his little arms around him, burying his head in his neck. The wizard stepped aside, letting Ginny and a spiky-haired little boy have their turn.

Others were paying their respects to different bodies now, murmuring goodbyes, touching a little, sobbing quietly, and Harry waited patiently, unmoving.

When everybody left the rows of dead and gathered in an irregular line a little away, Harry stepped forth in the rapidly expanding twilight, placing himself halfway between the living and the dead.

He hesitated only for an instant. The Seal Master's writings had mentioned cremation as the generally accepted funeral rite in these lands and so he raised his hand, focusing on getting the effect he needed just right. Magic is will, he reminded himself… in his mind, he chanted clearly: _Incendio_.

Controlled flames sprang forth in a burst, enveloping the first corpse, then jumping to the next, and the next, and the next, until they all burned gently, the flames dancing and twisting slowly, as if subdued.

The setting sun painted the horizon with garish splashes of orange and gold and purple, while the grass under his feet grew darker by the second. Harry felt choked up.

His mind flew to other funerals, other sorrows, Molly's pale face, Hagrid's sobs, the odious, pompous speeches after the war, even Aragog's hairy body… Luna's simple, touching goodbye to Dobby… his parents cold tombs under the snow, and how he'd felt before them…

Pointless… all of it… the dead do not appreciate any of it… they are beyond caring…

But the living do, a small part of him replied, and he cocked his head at the realization.

Hermione came up at his side, raising her hand to change the fames' colour to blue with a flicker. She always was good with fires.

The living need this… a chance to say goodbye, even if it isn't heard…

Ron was on his other side now, his hand raised too, faltering as if unsure of what to do, then coming to a decision. He cast, and the flames danced higher, curling beautifully against the red horizon.

A chance to say 'I love you' – better late than never… or simply to express the chocking weight of grief without shouting and breaking everything within reach…

He chanced a quick glance behind and saw that everybody had raised their hand in imitation, some confidently, some clumsily, awkwardly, but all together, somehow united.

He turned to contemplate the burning pyres, and let nightfall unfurl over them all.

Yes... those who are left behind need this chance... the chance to state, firmly, _I__ do __care__… __I__'__m__ still__ alive__… __I__'__m__ still__ human__… __and__ I__… __care._

The dead were gone for good and didn't care… but the living… the living did.

* * *

Later, much later, when nothing but slowly dying embers remained of the pyres and darkness enveloped everything, after they'd managed to get the children fed around small campfires and Luna and Hermione had very discreetly conjured sleeping bags for everyone, the seven friends managed to get away by themselves for a little while.

Harry felt beyond exhausted. Nor did the others fare any better: the soft white light of a low powered _lumos_ made them look like tired ghosts.

For long minutes, they just breathed together, reluctant to break the silence and face the innumerable questions and problems that awaited them.

Eventually, Ginny started to fidget, then move about restlessly, then grumble.

"Why are you so grumpy, Firelocks?" asked Luna serenely.

Everybody turned to stare at her – or, in Ginny's case, glower.

"Firelocks?" the temperamental young woman growled. "Where the hell did that come from?"

Luna didn't lose her composure. "I have chosen nicknames for all of us. Our real names are bound to sound foreign and strange and that isn't a good thing right now. Nicknames can be translated and will allow us to pass unnoticed. Harry already has his…"

"What?" blurted out the young man in question, surprised.

Ron quickly turned his laugh into a cough but Harry caught 'Sharpy' in there anyway. He scowled.

"…and it's easily shortened in 'Wind'," came Luna's voice hurriedly – evidently, she didn't want him to oppose her idea and so was quick to stave off the chance of mocking him. "I, myself, would like to be known as Moonshine," she concluded.

Harry smiled faintly. Thinking that anything was better than discussing their actual situation, he decided to try and keep the topic going. Besides, he was grateful that she'd given him a way to counter Ron's teasing and so attempted to return the favour: "Shine for short?"

"Or Moon," she nodded. "My real name means Moon after all…"

"Oh, and of course, since you would like to be known as Moonshine, we'll call you Moonshine, but we get stuck with whatever ridiculous thing you've chosen, because what we would like has no relevance whatsoever! Never mind that I positively loath this stupid nickname…"

"If you don't like it, you can easily choose something else," replied Luna with dignity, rather offended. "Mine was only a suggestion. I meant no offence."

Harry winced at how stiff she was.

"Well, it's a stupid suggestion!"

"Then give us a different one," interjected Malfoy angrily. "Because if we go with my idea, then Weaselette…"

"Shut the hell up Ferret!" shouted Ron, instantly incensed at the slur against his sister.

"You don't even know what she'll call _you._ Would serve you well if it's something idiotic…" exclaimed Ginny hotly.

"Luna wouldn't...!" cried Malfoy, indignant. Harry was surprised at his vehemence and his confidence in her.

"I'd thought Vipertooth for him," interjected Luna calmly. "Because it's a type of dragon, so it has a connection to his real name," she shot him a mischievous look from the corner of her eyes, "and because we can shorten it in 'Viper', which rather suits his temperament!"

Draco's pleased grin vanished in a scowl, but then he seemed to think better of it and smiled again, a bit reluctantly. "I suppose I deserve that…" He thought a moment. "Besides, it's a brilliant name. Thank you, Shine!" he winked.

"I can't believe you!" shouted Ginny, outraged. Then she rounded on Luna. "And if you think I'll just accept this…"

"So what will we call you?" asked Luna, regarding her coolly.

Ginny opened and closed her mouth a few times. "Well, I'll think of something!" she said angrily.

"Blaze," Harry blurted out in a murmur. He regretted it immediately, because Ginny shot him a furious look.

He shrank on himself. "It's just… it fits you, what I think of you, you don't have to choose this, it's just what I would choose…"

"Shut up, Sharpy," she hissed.

Neville coughed politely, catching their attention. Then he pointed to himself and raised an eyebrow in question. It seemed Harry wasn't the only one who wanted to keep the conversation on this light topic.

Luna smiled. "I think Blackthorn suits you. Thorn for short."

Neville smiled back, pleased.

"And Quicksilver for Hermione," added Luna.

The older girl looked completely caught off guard, but not displeased.

"And me?" whined Ron. Harry could see eagerness and resignation in his eyes, as if he couldn't wait to find out but expected it to be horrible.

Luna hesitated, which had Harry raise his eyebrows in shock, and told him almost shyly: "Thunderbolt."

Ron looked surprised and very pleased. "That's wicked!"

Luna blushed and Harry gaped.

"Alright. Fine," said Draco – Viper – briskly. "Now that this is somewhat over…" he coolly ignored Ginny's angry protest, "I'd like to know… what the hell is _that?_"

Everybody looked down at where he was pointing at the mysterious, wicked looking weapon still clutched in Harry's hand. He hadn't left it for more than a few minutes at a time the whole day.

Harry's eyes were drawn to it again. It really was beautiful… and powerful… and – in a word – _cool_.

He ran a finger on the symbol etched on its revolver-like handle, shaped in the same silvery – yet much, much harder than silver – metal as the blade. A roaring lion. It pleased him inordinately, gave him a sense of warmth and comfort despite the iciness of the sword it adorned. He felt both happy and a bit embarrassed that even after all this time, after all that happened, he could still be proud of being a Gryffindor. On the miniature, a stylized heart was marked with a deeper shade of the metal.

Ron's finger retraced it after Harry's and he snickered: "A Lion's Heart. Appropriate!"

"Only you, Potter," muttered Draco, shaking his head half in envy, half in fond exasperation as he examined the wonderfully crafted blade. "Only you."

"Yes, well, but all the same… what _is_ it?" asked Hermione.

"Oh…" Harry said a bit sheepishly. "Well, you see…"

The others snorted. "Right, Potter, right," chuckled Ron. "We were there, after all. You know, I think you're probably the only one in whatever universe who can manage to gain a mythical super-weapon _by__ accident_ while strolling through the time-continuum…"

Harry groaned.

"What _is_ it, anyway?"

"It's – well – I don't know, really. Some sort of sword, but with a firing mechanism like a rifle too. See? It's – it's like a cross between a blade and a gun. So… a Sword-gun? Sword-rifle? Rifle-blade?" he tried.

"Gunblade," suggested Luna serenely.

"Gun…blade…" said Harry slowly, testing the word out. He glanced down at the elegant weapon. The name fit it to a T. "Gunblade," he confirmed decisively with a small smile to Luna.

They all pretended to ignore Ginny's grumbled sarcasm about the blonde's naming tendencies and her nasty references to Snorcknacks and Blubbindgers, though Harry noticed how Luna's eyes narrowed angrily against the other girl.

"All this is well and good, but I think it's time that we discuss what we're going to do now," said at last Hermione with a sigh. "I mean, there are those people we accidentally brought along to consider, too," she didn't refrain from shooting Harry a reproachful look, "and I really don't know how we'll fix _that_ mess; plus we don't exactly know where we are or if this world has changed since the Seal Master's departure and…"

But she never finished the sentence, because abruptly, they all stiffened at once, heads swivelling to stare at a precise spot in the dark.

The perimeter alert spell had been breached.

* * *

_A/N_: _The__ title__ of__ this__ chapter__ comes__ from __the__ refrain__ of__ one__ of__ my __favourite__ songs,__ Blind__ Guardian__'__s__ "__When__ sorrow__ sang__"__:__ The__ air__ was__ filled__ with__ tears/__ Full__ of__ sadness__ and__ grief/__ When__ sorrow __sang__ softly__ and__ sweet__…_


End file.
